


the change from grey to color

by colourexplosion



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, POV Alternating, Photographer Harry, Street Artist Zayn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 01:59:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2490341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colourexplosion/pseuds/colourexplosion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>harry is a photographer. zayn is a street artist. they meet on the tube.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the change from grey to color

**Author's Note:**

> hello hello hello! I just want to say a big thanks to Megan and Kate, who both looked this over for me and helped me in my times of insecurity. they're the best. 
> 
> a * indicates a change in POV. the title of this is from little mix's "about the boy" and none of this is true. at all. please don't show anyone connected to the boys. 
> 
> thanks! enjoy!

Harry hates the tube.

It’s not the crowds or anything-- he quite likes people, actually-- or the smell, which could, admittedly, be better. No, he hates the swaying the most. It’s a bit like being on a boat, but stuffed underground, and really, Harry just prefers his trains above ground. Always has, always will. 

Anyway.

It’s a Tuesday, and he’s on the tube-- an uncommon occurrence in itself, but he’s running late to a meeting with an editor-- his portfolio a heavy, reassuring weight in his backpack. His knuckles are white where they’re wrapped tightly around the pole, and he takes a deep breath to steady his nerves. He inhales on a count of five, closes his eyes, and exhales, adjusting his stance as the car comes to a stop. He opens his eyes at the noise of the door, only to check the sign to see if this is where he needs to get off, but gets distracted by someone clearing their throat next to him. 

“Yeah?” Harry turns and stops, freezes, because jesus _fuck_ the someone next to him happens to be the most attractive person he thinks he’s ever seen. And his best mates are a model and a professional footie player, so it’s not as if he’s making an uninformed decision. Seriously. The guy’s got dark brown, nearly black hair that’s been stuffed into a grey knit beanie; wide brown eyes with dark lashes that extend nearly to his eyebrows. His cheekbones could probably cut glass and his mouth-- god, his lips look like they were made to be bitten. His bottom lip sticks out below his top one, fuller and dark, dark pink. Harry wants to reach out and run his thumb over it.

He doesn’t, for the record. He doesn’t do that, because the guy just raises an eyebrow at him, like he’s waiting for Harry to answer him, and Harry belatedly realizes he must’ve asked a question. 

“Sorry?” Harry’s voice is a bit rougher than he’d like, but, hell, it’s not like he can do much about it. 

“I asked if anyone’s sat there,” the guy says, nodding toward the seat directly behind Harry. It’s empty, but only because if anyone did sit there, they’d be staring at Harry’s bum for their whole ride. Harry’s a bit offended that no one’s taken it, honestly. It’s a nice bum, if he does say so himself. 

“Ah, no, don’t think so, mate,” he says, giving the stranger a smile, trying not to leer. Or gape. Or embarrass himself more than he already has. 

“Cheers,” the guy says, sliding around him to take the seat, and Harry turns, because as much as he’d like to subject this stranger to the view of his arse for the whole way, he’d also like to get a bit more staring in. The bloke sits and immediately draws out his phone, staring at it intently.

He leans against the pole as the door closes, and he checks the map again, just to make sure he’s still on the right track. Right. Three more stops. Harry picks a point out the window, just over the guy’s head, so it’s not obvious he’s staring. 

Or, not _as_ obvious. Hopefully. 

The guy-- and Harry really should learn his name, or at least make one up for him or something-- doesn’t seem to notice, or isn’t creeped out by it, at least, so Harry falls silent, going over his answers to some generic interview questions in his head, sneaking glances at his beautiful stranger. (Louis would take the piss if he knew Harry was already so possessive over a bloke he just met. Ridiculous.) No, alright, this interview’s actually very important, so Harry needs to focus. Like, a lot. Beautiful stranger be damned.

He pulls out his portfolio, flipping through the pages to check the date of something, when:

“You a model, then?” 

Harry blinks in surprise, falling into the pole a little when the car comes to another stop. Two more. He looks down at the guy, who’s looking at him with an eyebrow raised. 

“Um, no,” Harry says, eloquent as always. “Prefer to be behind the camera, honestly.” His brow creases. “Why?” 

The guy nods his head toward the portfolio in Harry’s arms. Right. 

“Oh, no, this is just photographs. Like, my photographs. That I took.” God, why isn’t Louis here to elbow him and take over the conversation? There’s a reason he shouldn’t be let out of the flat alone. 

The guy, to his credit, only has a vaguely amused twist to his mouth, and he nods. “I guessed as much.” 

Will no one take mercy on Harry’s soul? He smiles, a tight thing that probably makes this stranger think he hates him, but, ugh. He used to be good at this sort of thing. Talking to people. Strangers. Attractive strangers, even. Just this morning he wooed the hot barista into giving him a free shot of espresso. 

Though, if Harry thinks about it, that extra shot was probably a mistake, free or not. His hands have yet to stop shaking.

“Can I see?” Wait, what? Harry blinks again, and the guy nods toward his arms. “I mean, if you don’t, like, mind.” 

“Um, yeah, yeah, sure,” he says, flipping the folder shut and handing it to him. He makes a decision, then, to move to the seat next to the guy-- because it’s easier to talk about your work when you’re on the same level as someone; it gets awkward when one of you is straining to hear or something-- anyway. 

Harry lets go of the pole to take a step just as the car lurches forward, and he stumbles-- of course he stumbles, of _course_ \-- actually manages to trip over the air that separates him from the guy’s lap, and falls. 

He catches himself with two hands slapping loudly onto the glass on either side of the stranger’s head, a bit high up. He closes his eyes, staying there for a moment, relearning the sway of the car and takes a deep breath, looking down. 

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he mumbles, ignoring the heat that blooms on his cheeks. “Built a bit like a baby deer.” 

“Happens to the best of us, mate,” the guy says, voice on the edge of a laugh, and Harry wishes he would. Laugh, that is. Harry wants to make him laugh. 

Instead, he lifts himself up and twists, plopping into the free seat. 

“Anyway,” he says, waving a hand, “Um, that’s them, the photos. If you want to like--” Harry flails his hand about again and the guy grins at him. Harry feels a stab of something-- want, maybe, or lust or affection-- in his chest, and has to look down at the book. It’s better anyway, to focus on the photos, and not on this guy and how much Harry would like to strip him naked, get him in bed and take ridiculous amounts of photos of him. Maybe not in that order. Or maybe exactly in that order. He’s not picky. 

“S’my favorite,” Harry says, pointing to a portrait of Louis, done in black and white. It’s older, but still one of the best photo’s he’s ever taken. It’s a profile shot, and Louis’ laughing, eyes crinkling and mouth spread wide. They were in Italy, Harry’s pretty sure, and he’d just dropped his gelato into one of the canals. He then told Louis that the photo was going in his portfolio as payback. Louis had only shrugged and grinned. It’s a nice memory. 

The guy only hums, and keeps turning pages. It’s a bit odd, really, having a complete stranger look at his personal portfolio-- the one the editor had suggested he bring-- but he assumes he ought to get used to it. Especially if he wants to actually start showing, or something. 

He reaches the end quickly, closes the book and hands it back to him. “Those are aces, mate, really,” he says, a smile on his face that makes Harry feel ridiculously at ease. 

“Thanks.” He takes the book back, holds it to his chest for a moment. The car slows to a stop again, and Harry takes a breath. One more stop, and he’ll have to get off. Better make the most of it, yeah? 

“Are you a model, then?” Harry asks, echoing the guy’s question. “With those cheekbones, I really hope so. I know a lot of people who’d kill for bone structure like that.” 

The guy chuckles-- still not a real laugh-- and shakes his head, and Harry smirks at the red that flushes his cheeks. Good. Not completely immune to his charms, then. 

“Nah, I’m a teacher. Or,” he shrugs. “Studying to be one. Just about done, actually.” 

Harry nods. He’d done an accelerated track at university and managed to get out sooner than most. Of course, he takes photos for a living, so his courses were a bit different. Required different efforts. 

“S’cool, though,” Harry says, nodding. “An honorable profession. Shaping young minds.” He shrugs, smiles when the guy looks at him. “What d’you want to teach?” 

“Art,” the guy answers, without hesitation. “But I’ll probably end up doing English most of the time.” 

Harry nods again, then frowns as the car starts to slow. “I think my stop’s coming up,” he says, twisting around to check the map. And yeah, it is. Fuck. “Um.” 

“See you around, yeah?” The guy raises an eyebrow again, and Harry nods. He’s starting to feel a bit like a bobble head. 

“Yeah, I hope so. Um. I’m Harry, by the way,” he sticks out a hand to shake, “you know. Seems a bit rude that I was nearly on top of you earlier and hadn’t introduced myself.” 

The guy laughs, _finally_ , short and sweet, and Harry wants to lean forward and kiss him. Well. He settles for shaking his hand. 

“I’m Zayn,” the guy-- _Zayn_ \-- says, smiling again. Harry can’t help but smile back, pleased. 

“Zayn,” he repeats, and before he can stop himself, “Beautiful name for a beautiful guy.” 

He feels his own eyes widen a bit, not shocked, really, but just embarrassed that he hadn’t been smoother. That’s really the best he can come up with? Zayn laughs though, another real one, and Harry lets the sound wash over him, settle into his bones. 

“I hope that line never works,” Zayn says, eyes still sparkling with his laugh. “Because it’s bloody awful, mate.” 

“Heeey,” Harry pouts at him, jostles into his side when the car stops and then stands. “I’ll have you know it’s worked plenty.” 

“Yeah, sure, I’ll believe that when I see it,” Zayn says, grinning and Harry gives him a two-fingered salute before stepping into the station. He absolutely does not watch as the doors close and the train pulls out. He also doesn’t wonder where Zayn’s stop is, or if they’re going to be in the general vicinity of one another again any time soon. You don’t just run into people you meet once on the tube again unless you’re meant to. London’s too huge for that, Harry knows. 

So, he walks up the steps with what he’s sure is a doofy grin on his face and goes to his interview. 

\--

The interview goes well. Really well. Like, better than Harry could’ve ever hoped. 

Simon, the editor of _GAZE_ magazine-- which, yeah, even Harry realizes how pretentious that sounds, thanks-- turns out to be a perfectly respectable man, and not at all like the other twats he’d had interviews with. 

“I’m very impressed with your work,” he says, flipping through the pages, just like Zayn had. But no, no, Harry doesn’t need to think about Zayn right now. Focus, Harry. Focus on employment. 

“I’ve never been asked to bring a personal portfolio,” Harry says, unsure of what else to say. It seems safe, at least. 

“Well, I’d already seen the one you submitted with your resume,” Simon says, flipping the book horizontally to see a panoramic landscape Harry took of his hometown just before he’d left. He looks up, catching Harry’s gaze. “They were good, of course, but I’m not looking for _good_ , you understand? We appreciate a unique perspective here at _GAZE_. I wanted to see more.” 

Harry deflates a bit. That means Simon doesn’t think he has what it takes, just like the six other editors he’s met with. Great. “Of course,” he says, nodding, painting a smile on. 

“Why d’you look like that?” Simon asks, eyes narrowing. His expression reminds Harry a bit of Liam when Harry eats the rest of his Cheerios without asking, which is something he could live without, actually. 

“Um,” Harry says, shrugging. That’s an unexpected question. This is probably the oddest interview he’s ever been to. “It’s just my face?” 

“Right,” Simon says, closing the book. He pauses for a moment. Oh god, here it is. The rejection. Harry clenches his teeth behind his closed lips. 

“Anyway, these are very good, Harry. I’d like to offer you a position with the magazine, a staff photographer, if that suits you.” 

Harry nods, “I understand, Mr. Cowell, and I can only-- wait, what?” Wait, _wait._ Had he just? 

“I’d like to offer you a job, Harry,” Simon says again, gently, like Harry’s a bit thick, and hell, maybe he is. 

“Yes,” Harry says immediately, then takes a deep breath. “I mean-- yes, that would-- I’d love to work here.” 

 

Simon smiles at him, and there’s a bit of a glint in his eye that Harry doesn’t know what to do with, but he ignores it, because _he has a job._

*

Zayn sits on a stool in his studio, staring at the blank canvas in front of him. He takes a drag of his cigarette, blowing the smoke out of the open window. 

He’s been sitting here almost half an hour now, but each time he picks up a pencil to sketch and closes his eyes to visualize what he wants to paint, the only thing he can see is a pair of long, long legs leading up to thin hips clad in tight black jeans, a light blue linen shirt tucked into them. 

Zayn had pulled out his phone to keep himself from ogling the stranger on the train-- look, it was a nice pair of legs, and the bulge hadn’t been too bad either-- but he’d just been too pretty to resist. His dark curly hair, clear green eyes and pink mouth had reminded Zayn of all those portraits of women from the Renaissance; half-angelic and sort of eagerly innocent, like. And he’d been adorably clumsy, obviously nervous but still charming enough that Zayn wanted to speak to him. 

And, God, his _photos._

If there’s anything that makes feel Zayn inadequate, it’s seeing other people’s blatant talent, and that stranger had a lot of it. No, not a stranger. Harry. They’d introduced themselves. _Harry._

He’d expected Harry’s photos to just be like any other bloke’s. Maybe a shot of a creepy looking house or a chair with some “interesting” shadow angles, but no. It’d been portraits, landscapes, still lifes that took Zayn’s breath away. Every picture in that folder had a clear intention, a message, a concrete perspective. Harry had come off sort of like a bumbling baby deer to Zayn, but it was obvious his photographs could speak for him. 

Which is how Zayn knew, the second he’d flipped to one of the portraits that the bloke on the page was someone Harry must have cared for a lot. A boyfriend, probably. And why shouldn’t Harry have a boyfriend? From their minimal interaction Zayn could tell that he was lovely, and whoever got a piece of that love for themselves was probably the luckiest person on the planet. 

Of course someone’s already snatched that up. Who wouldn’t? 

Besides, Zayn’s got an awful track record anyway. He’d been ready to marry the supposed love of his life, only to figure out that she hadn’t cared nearly as much as him. They’d been engaged almost a year before Zayn’s parents started putting pressure on him to pick a date, and when he’d put the same pressure on Perrie, she’d cracked. 

“I can’t do it, I’m sorry,” she’d said, stuffing clothes into her suitcase. Zayn had been gutted by the sight, at the time. “I thought I wanted to but--” 

“Just like that, then?” he’d said, not even trying to keep the anger out of his voice. The anger covered the embarrassment, obviously. The lesser of two evils. 

“I’m really sorry Zayn,” Perrie said, giving him a sad look. At the time he’d thought it was _because_ she was sad, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized that she’d been sad _for him_. Like, pitying. Zayn fucking hates pity. 

He’d walked out of the room without saying anything more, and she’d left a little while afterward. Niall had moved in about two weeks later to help with rent, and Zayn’s ability to paint anything worth turning in had dried up around the same time. 

He sighs, stubbing out his cigarette and picking up his bag. Another day with nothing done, then. 

*

 _GUESS WHO’S EMPLOYED FULL TIME??????_ Harry’s absolutely beaming when he sends the text to Louis and Liam, smiling so hard his cheeks hurt a bit with it. 

Liam’s response comes immediately, and just says _**cngrts mate new u cud!!!!!!!!**_. Bless him. 

Louis’ takes a bit longer, and says, _**Most of London?**_ and then, a moment later, **_Congrats, babe, knew you’d get it._**

He sends a simple _xx_ to both of them in response as he heads down the stairs to the tube. He’ll text them later about a celebration, but not now. His phone’s always got shit reception on the underground, so it’s easier to just leave it. 

Harry plops down in a seat this time, leaning his head back against the glass, closing his eyes and letting out a sigh of relief. A job. He’s got a job. Hallelujah. 

“Well, well, well,” a familiar voice startles him, and he straightens. Zayn’s looking at him, leaning on the back of some seats and looking like he’s about to laugh. “If it isn’t Harry the Photographer.” He smiles, and Harry grins at him. 

“Zayn the Almost Teacher,” he replies, tilting his head toward him. “Headed home?” 

Zayn nods, sits back, but no, Harry’s not about to let this end. It’s too good of a day, really. He stands quickly, moving to sit in the seat next to him, still smiling like an idiot. 

 

“Hope this is all right,” he says, because Harry’s not really a person who remembers that boundaries are things that other people have. 

Zayn, to his credit, only shrugs. He seems a bit off, more reserved than earlier. Maybe Harry is crossing a boundary, or something. He really hadn’t meant to. 

“S’fine,” Zayn says, patting Harry’s knee and, well, okay. Okay then. 

Harry nods, and the silence stretches awkwardly, not quite tense, but not quite charged, either, and that won’t do.

“I got a job,” Harry blurts, ungraceful, and Zayn raises an eyebrow. “Just now, or um, a little bit ago. Staff photographer for a magazine.” Awkward, awkward, awkward. He swears he used to be better at this. Good at it, even. Really. Free espresso shots, and all. 

“That’s awesome, mate,” Zayn says, though he looks a bit like he wants to laugh, and that seems fair, Harry thinks, especially since Harry’s probably making a fool of himself. He lets out a breath. 

“Thanks,” he says, then pauses. “Um, we’re probably going to go to the pub, or something. My friends and I, I mean. To celebrate.” Christ, Styles, seriously? 

“Sounds cool, mate,” Zayn says, his tone placating, and Harry only knows that because he’s heard it on every other person he knows. He guesses it takes a lot, sometimes, for people to deal with him. Whatever. 

“You should come, is my point.” There. There it is. Inviting a bloke he just met out to the pub to celebrate his job. Awesome. Good one. Not creepy at all. “Like, I’d like to get to know you? If that’s alright.” 

He pauses, and Zayn looks at him for a moment, and Harry crumples, resting his forehead on the seats in front of him. 

“Fuck,” he says, whines, really, and he can feel Zayn shaking with laughter beside him. “I’m usually much better at this.” 

“At what,” Zayn asks, still laughing. Harry turns to look at him, leaving his head on the seats. 

“Like, inviting people to go places,” he says weakly. Zayn laughs again. It doesn’t seem unkind, though, and Harry appreciates that. 

“Sure,” Zayn says, but Harry’s not sure what he’s agreeing to. “I’ll come out with you and your mates.” Harry straightens, grinning. 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Zayn says, nodding. “Give me your phone.” Harry scrambles, pulling it out to hand to him. He unlocks it and hands it over, waiting for Zayn to punch in his number. He’s paused, though, looking at something on Harry’s screen. 

It’s then that Harry realizes his background is a photo of Liam, shirtless and laughing, something that Louis had set months ago as a joke, and Harry had never bothered to change. Zayn’s looking at it curiously, though, and Harry watches him swallow and blink a few times. 

Right. 

Liam’s a model, so it’s not like Harry’s never seen someone have that reaction to him, but, well, he’d been hoping Zayn would have that reaction to _him._ Eh, it’d been stupid, yeah. Whatever. Maybe he can set them up. 

“That’s Liam. He’s lovely,” Harry says, painting a smile on, and Zayn looks up, a little startled. “You’ll probably meet him tonight, if you want,” he adds, and Zayn nods. 

“Yeah, sure,” Zayn says, shrugging, and that’s honestly the worst faked nonchalance Harry has ever seen. Seriously. “How do I--” 

“Oh, right,” Harry says, taking the phone for a minute to open a new message. “Type your number in there, I’ll text you right now, yeah?” 

Zayn nods, typing quickly and then giving the phone back to Harry. The train slows to a stop and Zayn stands, giving him a smile. 

“Time for me to go,” he says, and Harry gives him a wave. 

“I’ll text you with details,” he says, and Zayn nods, making his way onto the platform. Right. So. Attractive guy on the tube wasn’t into him, but that’s fine. He still thinks Zayn could be a good friend. And a damn attractive boyfriend to Liam. 

So, all in all, not quite a loss. 

\---

 _ **it alright if I bring my mate?**_

Harry reads Zayn’s text just after he’s gotten out of the shower, the residual steam creeping out the door and into his bedroom. 

_of course. the more the merrier. xx._

He hits send before he realizes he’s done the xx’s, but he can’t-- he can’t take them back now, and it’s not as if he doesn’t do them with everyone. Just a part of the Harry Styles experience. He doesn’t have much time to dwell on it, anyway, because the door bangs open, then shut, and there’s a thud that Harry knows is Louis’ football bag being dropped on their hardwood floors. 

“Where’s my finally employed roommate?” Louis shouts, and Harry rolls his eyes, poking his head out the door. 

“Where d’you think? Get hit in the head again today?” Harry moves back into his room, pulling out a pair of pants to put on before Louis tackles him or something. It’s not an uncommon occurrence. 

“Does this look like a face that’s been recently smacked with balls?” Louis' voice is closer, and a more normal volume, so Harry raises an eyebrow before turning to look at him, unsurprised to find him leaning on the door frame, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. 

“Do you really want me to answer that,” Harry deadpans, and Louis laughs, loud and bright.

“Someone’s in a good mood, yeah?” Louis raises an eyebrow and Harry scoffs. 

“Just got a job, so yeah, I’d say so,” he says, tossing his damp towel at Louis’ face. He pulls a pair of jeans out of his dresser and struggles into them. His phone beeps on the dresser, but Louis gets there first, while Harry’s trying to button them up. 

“I keep telling you, just get new jeans,” Louis says, swiping the phone and looking down at it. “Also, who’s Zayn Train?”

“Huh?” Harry looks up from searching for a shirt. “Oh, um, Zayn. Met him on the tube, before my interview. And after, kind of.” 

Louis’ brows raise a little, but Harry just shrugs. 

“Invited him with us tonight, if that’s all right.” 

Louis shrugs too, glances down at the message and then back up to Harry. 

“Do you want to fuck him?” 

Harry, to his credit, only chokes a little. 

“No. I mean, yeah, he’s right fit, but--” He waves a hand and Louis raises an eyebrow expectantly. “He saw that photo of Liam that’s my background, yeah? Nearly had to pick his jaw up off the floor for him. So. Guess I’ll set them up?” 

Louis looks at him for a moment, and then throws the phone back on Harry’s bed. “You’re much nicer than I am,” he says, finally, and Harry snorts. 

“No, seriously,” Louis continues, moving to sit on the edge of Harry’s bed. “I’d probably try to fuck him anyway.” 

“If you still fucked blokes, you mean,” Harry snorts, resuming his search for a shirt. 

“Christ, you get one bloody girlfriend and everyone thinks you’re straight,” Louis moans, and Harry can practically hear the eyeroll. “Seriously. You know what I mean.” 

Harry pulls one out, a faded Ramones tee that’s seen better days, but it’s comfortable and familiar, so he tugs it on. 

“Yeah, yeah, okay, whatever,” Harry says, turning toward Louis with his hands on his hips. “Are you going to shower? You know Paul will kick us out if you don’t.” 

Louis answers by tossing the damp towel back in Harry’s face, cackling and running off before Harry can get himself untangled and chase him. Twat. Harry’s lucky to have him for a best friend. 

\--

The pub’s not really crowded, seeing as it’s still Tuesday, and it’s a bit early for anyone to want to really get smashed. Harry’s glad for it, really, especially since it means he can spot Zayn as he walks through the door, even though they’re all crammed into a booth at the back. 

Harry sticks a hand in the air and waves like a lunatic, nearly elbowing Louis in the head, but it works. Zayn notices him and gives him a nod before turning to a blond guy who’s about the same height as him. The guy laughs, nods, and they approach, and Harry feels Louis lean in to whisper. 

“Which one is he?” 

“Um.” It takes Harry a moment to turn his head toward Louis, distracted by the way Zayn’s done his hair up in a sort of quiff. It’s distractingly hot. 

“The quiff,” Harry murmurs, and Louis’ eyebrows shoot up. 

“You didn’t tell me he was a bloody Gucci model,” he hisses, pinching Harry’s side, and Harry slaps his hand away. 

“He’s _not_. He’s going to be a teacher.” Harry pauses. “And I told you he was fit.” 

“Hey, Harry,” Zayn says, cutting off whatever Louis had been about to whisper next. Harry turns his attention to him and grins, wide. 

“Hey, Zayn. This is um, this is Louis,” He gestures to him, and then to Liam, who winks at Zayn and Harry simultaneously grins wider and ignores the heavy feeling in his chest as Zayn flushes, “and this is Liam. Guys, this is Zayn, and um, I’m sorry, I don’t know your friend’s--” 

“Niall,” the guy says, sticking his hand out for...anyone to shake, probably. Harry takes it first, smiling, and then Louis, and then Liam. 

“Right. Niall.” 

There’s a tense silence, kind of like the one on the tube earlier, but then Niall takes a seat next to Louis and starts asking him questions-- about football, maybe? Niall must be a fan-- and Zayn slides in next to Liam. 

“So,” Liam says, peeling a bit of the paper off his beer. Means he’s a bit nervous. Maybe Harry’s not the only one affected by Zayn’s beauty. And, well, if he really is going to set them up, then, it’s a good thing to know. “Harry says you want to be a teacher?” 

Zayn’s face lights up a little at that, and Harry wishes he had his camera. God, he’s pathetic. “Yeah,” Zayn says, “I um-- Got started a bit late, you know? And then had a bit of trouble deciding for sure.” 

Liam’s nodding along, and then smiling. “Yeah. Can’t say I ever wanted to be a teacher, but it took me awhile to decide, too. I was a firefighter before I got my current job, actually,” he says, and Harry has to keep himself from rolling his eyes. It’s Liam’s favorite line. Mostly because it always works. 

“Oh yeah,” Zayn says, clearly falling for it, “What’s that?” 

Liam grins at him, and Harry takes a long drink and turns to Niall and Louis’ conversation as Liam says, “A model.” 

He doesn’t need to see Zayn’s reaction to know how the rest of the night will go. He drains his beer and nudges Louis and Niall so he can get out. 

“Getting another round,” he says, clapping his hands together. He can do this. He _can_. “Who wants one?” 

Everyone does, obviously, so Louis clambers out of the booth as well to “help” him, but Harry knows he just wants to talk about Zayn. 

“So,” Louis says, once they’re out of earshot. “You’re really just going to let him hook up with Liam?” 

Harry shrugs and slides onto a barstool. “I dunno,” he says. “It’s not like I have a claim, or whatever. I just met him this morning. And he didn’t seem interested, so.” 

“Yeah, a ridiculously fit guy you met on the tube this morning comes out with you because he’s _not_ interested,” Louis says, and Harry frowns at his tone. 

“One, he only seemed excited about it after he saw the picture of Liam,” Harry says, rolling his eyes. “And two, maybe he’s just friendly. Or like, lonely. Wants more friends, or something.” 

Louis looks at him again for a long moment and then looks away, letting out a breath. “You know, I don’t think I’ll ever fucking forgive Ben,” he says, and that’s not-- That’s definitely not what Harry was expecting. 

“ _What?_ ” The mention of his ex is more than enough to make Harry’s stomach roll uncomfortably, the two beers he’s already had considering coming back up. No thanks. “Louis, what the fuck?” 

Louis sighs, seemingly frustrated, and pinches the bridge of his nose. “It’s just…” he trails off, still not looking at Harry. 

“Just what?” Harry rarely snaps, especially at Louis, so it’s enough to finally get him to look. But he’s not mad, like Harry thought he’d be. Just like, sad or something. Pitying. Yeah, fuck that. “Just what, Lou?” 

“Just, before that prick, you never would’ve thought twice about someone like that--” He jabs his thumb back toward their booth, “-- being interested in you. He like, really fucked you over, Haz.” 

Right. Great. “Thanks,” Harry says, not even bothering to keep his tone in control. Fuck this. All of it. 

“Harry,” Louis starts, but Harry waves a hand. 

“Stop, all right?” Harry sighs, leans his head on the bar briefly and lifts it again, looking back at Louis. “I just-- I get it, okay? You’re just trying to look out for me, but I’m like-- I’m fine. Really. That was months ago, okay?” 

“Yeah, I know, and you’ve not had a proper shag since,” Louis says, and Harry pouts again. 

“That’s not true. I’ve had like-- I’ve had sex, Louis,” he says, and Louis scoffs. 

“Yeah, fine, all right. You had your rebounds but, it’s not the same, and you know it. You know what I mean. I just hate seeing you this way, all right?” 

Harry rolls his eyes, sighs and yeah, all right, maybe he’s been a bit miserable these past few months, but really. Today is a new leaf, and he’s turned it. Definitely. He nudges Louis’ hip with his knee, and leans his head on his shoulder. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, and Louis squeezes his hip. “But don’t turn into a sap or anything, please. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself.” 

Louis laughs, shoves him away and orders their drinks. 

\--

The rest of the night goes well, Harry thinks. Zayn and Niall fit in well with their trio, and as the night goes on, Zayn definitely opens up. Harry overhears a conversation with Louis about Yorkshire and taking care of younger sisters. Liam and Niall talk for a long time about music, since it seems they have similar tastes. Harry’s fine flitting from conversation to conversation, and hey, if it’s easier to jump around than try to get Zayn on his own, well, that’s fine too. 

They call it a night when the pub gets so crowded that they basically have to yell over one another to hear. They all pile outside and start off toward their flats, which are surprisingly close to each other. It’s nice to know, in a way. 

Harry’s always been a handsy drunk, and he’s not drunk right now, but pleasantly buzzed. He can’t be blamed when he wraps an arm around the waist closest to him, which happens to be Liam. Liam, bless him, goes with it, fitting his arm around Harry’s shoulder as they walk, and keeps his conversation going with Zayn. 

“But when people say Batman and Iron Man are basically the same character,” Zayn’s saying, talking with his hands, and his eyes are all crinkly and he’s cute. Really cute. And fit. Still very fit. “It drives me mad, you know? Like, have you even read the comics? Seen the movies? Because they’re not.” 

“Exactly!” Liam brings his hands up for his exclamation, and forgets that Harry’s curled into him, apparently, because he whacks him upside the head. 

“Oww,” Harry whines, pouting, but it didn’t really hurt that bad. He may just want attention. 

“Sorry, love,” Liam says, kissing the side of Harry’s head and stroking a hand through his hair. 

“S’okay,” Harry murmurs, but he doubts Liam hears it. He’s still talking about Iron Man and the third film, and something about electromagnets, and whatever, Harry’s not paying attention, he’s too busy watching Zayn. Beautiful Zayn, who keeps glancing at Harry and getting that amused twist to his mouth, and Harry still wants to kiss it. A lot. 

“This is us,” Louis says, his voice loud and clear and drawing Harry from his trance. He straightens, turning to face the building. He feels Liam’s hand at the small of his back, pressing him forward, and he only manages to just turn to wave bye to Niall and Zayn. 

He fits himself into Liam again once they’re in the elevator, still buzzed but growing sleepier by the minute. 

“Zayn’s pretty cool,” Liam says, and Harry hears Louis’ noise of agreement from beside them. Oh, his eyes have closed. How’d that happen? “Niall too. Knows a lot about music, yeah? I’d love to jam with him.” 

Louis snorts at that, and a smile curls into Harry’s mouth. “Yeah, not in the apartment, please,” Louis says, “I don’t know if I’ve recovered from the _'jam session'_ with Ed and Taylor.” 

Liam groans, and Harry winces. “C’mon, Louis I’ve said I was sorry like, a million times.” 

“There are still stains on the couch,” Louis responds and Harry giggles. 

“Jam,” he says, and Liam snorts. 

“Someone’s had too much.” 

\--

Someone-- Liam, probably-- stripped Harry and put him to bed last night, leaving some paracetamol and a glass of water on his bedside table. He wakes just fine, so he ignores the pills and drinks the water before venturing into the kitchen. 

It’s only 10AM, but it’s Wednesday, so Liam’s on a shoot and Louis’ at team practice. Harry knows there’s a real chance he’ll start playing in actual matches soon, and that’s a bit mad, really, that he might soon be best mates with a starting player of a Premier League football club. 

He makes himself breakfast-- a quick eggs and toast-- and eats it, and is just putting the dishes into the dishwasher when he hears his phone ring and startles a bit. Simon said he’d call with more details-- like a start date, which would be nice-- and things like that. Harry runs for his room, digging through last night’s clothes on the floor (definitely Liam who put him to bed, then) for his phone. He manages to catch it just in time, chats for a while about some ideas he has already for some shoots, gets his start date and rings off. He holds the phone in his hand a moment, staring a bit before clicking open his messages. 

_sorry we didn’t get much of a chance to talk last night. meet up again soon?_ He debates on the xx’s-- okay, the _kisses_ \-- as usual, but he figures that’s not really a text that needs them. But what if Zayn-- no, no. All right. Harry’s just going to send it, lock his phone and put it on the coffee table and not think about it. At all. Really. He even gets up to go into the kitchen and make himself a sandwich for lunch. Even though he’s really just had breakfast. Whatever.

Of course, when his phone beeps in the middle of it, he runs to grab it, leaving smeared mustard fingerprints on the doorframes and table. He’ll clean it. It’ll be fine. 

**_no worries mate, had a good time anyway. how’s friday?_**

Friday. Friday is Harry’s second day of work, so he’s sure he’ll want to go out again to celebrate. Yeah. Perfect excuse.

 _Friday’s good. I’ll invite the lads? Same place?_

The reply comes less than a minute later. 

_**sounds great.** _

Yeah, Harry thinks, locking his phone again. It really does. 

\--

So, the thing is that Louis was right. Well, actually, Louis is right about a lot of things most of the time, and it drives Harry insane, but that’s not the point. The point is that Louis was right: Harry’s not had a proper shag in a long time. Like, it’s embarrassing, almost. If Harry were a person who could really be embarrassed by things like that. 

He’s had sex, yeah, he wasn’t lying, but it’s just been with a few girls here and there, maybe a bloke in the loo of a noisy, crowded nightclub, but never like, anything real. Substantial. He knows Louis blames Ben, and the fact that their relationship had gone so bad so quickly, but Harry knows that relationships are a two way thing. It’s not all Ben’s fault. Harry probably had something to do with it. Like, your boyfriend doesn’t just fuck other people in his bed when you’re not around because he’s purely an arsehole. It’s possible that Harry wasn’t attentive enough or just-- something. 

Mostly, he just really can’t believe he was that naive for that long. 

True, he’s always been quick to trust, and he’s definitely the one who gives more in any relationship, but that doesn’t mean he’s perfect. Lots of people freak out when one person is way more into things than the other one. That was probably the issue, really. Ben had wanted casual, but Harry hadn’t realized. He feels a bit stupid about it all, even still, but he’s getting over that. 

Besides, it’s not like Zayn will be a repeat. Zayn doesn’t even want him. He wants Liam, and Harry is perfectly, absolutely happy to set them up. 

After all, living vicariously is better than not living at all.

*

Zayn wakes to a pillow in his face and his mattress lurching dangerously, like London’s suddenly being hit with an earthquake. He sits up, eyes snapping open right as the pillow swings toward his face again. He dodges it and strikes out at the shin to his right. He wishes he could say this isn’t a common occurrence, but he can’t. Because Niall does it at least three times a week.

“What the fuck, Niall?” He’s sure he sounds murderous. Zayn hates to be woken up, especially like this. Niall knows that. He just cackles though, and jumps off the bed. 

“Figured I’d wake you for your class,” he says, like he’s the bloody paradigm of care and consideration. 

“Piss off,” Zayn snaps, falling back to the bed. He’s up now, though, his pulse rabbiting in his neck and making him feel vaguely uncomfortable, stuck in the middle place between deep sleep and high on adrenaline. 

“You wanna be late, it’s not on my head.” 

“Class is canceled, and I never asked you to be my fucking keeper.” Zayn means to say it teasingly, but he’s still grumpy that he got woken up so ungracefully when he’d just wanted to sleep, damn it. Niall doesn’t answer, and Zayn figures he deserves that. 

“Hey,” he says, once he turns and realizes that Niall’s got a sort of stunned look on his face. “I’m sorry, all right? It’s not your fault, mate.” 

“I was only trying to help,” Niall responds, uncharacteristically meek, and fuck, Zayn must’ve really missed his teasing mark. He folds the covers back and pats the bed. Niall relaxes and crawls into the bed with him, his socked feet pressing into Zayn’s calves as their legs tangle. Zayn takes Niall’s snapback off and tosses it across the room. Niall doesn’t seem to mind. 

“You’re a good mate, Nialler,” Zayn mumbles sometime later, running a hand through Niall’s hair. 

“The best,” Niall agrees, always humble. Zayn rolls his eyes, but only because Niall can’t see. “You gonna tell me what’s wrong? Or do I have to figure it out myself?” 

Zayn sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. Lots of things are wrong, and that’s the problem. His two year relationship with his _fiancee_ crumbled six months ago and he’s just now starting to get over it. He met a gorgeous bloke on the underground and actually had the nerve to chat with him, and it turns out he’s got an equally as gorgeous boyfriend. He hasn’t been able to paint anything in weeks because of his fucked love life and insane hours at the bookshop. He’s fairly certain he’s run out of cigarettes, also, which he actually can’t think about or he may start crying. 

“Hey,” Niall says gently, nudging him. Must’ve been lost in thought. “You alright?” 

“Just a lot going on right now.” Zayn looks down at Niall, giving him a weak smile. “I’ll be fine.” 

Niall makes a noise like he doesn’t believe him but drops the issue. “Gonna have to tell me sometime,” he says, and Zayn doesn’t respond. Seems easier that way.

They roll out of bed eventually, wandering into the kitchen for food. Niall pulls some eggs out of the fridge and fries them up, even though it’s nearing the middle of the day. Zayn couldn’t care less. He’ll eat eggs any time. 

“What’s the plan for today, then?” Niall asks him, poking at the skillet with his spatula. 

Zayn shrugs. “Dunno. Work later.” 

“You closing?” 

“Yeah,” he sighs, picking up a fork and twirling it around with his fingers. He’s closed every night this week so far, which is fine, except for the part where he’s too tired to do anything but come home and sleep afterward. “Might try to do some painting afterward.” 

Niall nods. “Studio?” 

“Nah,” Zayn says, setting the fork down on the counter. The thought of going into the studio to stare at his canvas for hours makes him feel ill. “Need to change the pace a little, you know?”  
Niall nods again, taking the skillet off the stove and divvying up the eggs. 

“Just as long as you don’t get caught,” he says, putting the pan in the sink and switching off the burner. “Can’t afford to bail you out again.”

Zayn grins up at him. “I’ll try my best Nialler, promise.”

\--

Zayn waits until after he’s had tea to set out, his bag full of supplies securely on his back. He’s got a usual spot that he likes to go to for this, but he’s not going there tonight. No, he needs someplace new. A blank slate. Maybe it’ll help sort through the mess in his head. 

He trudges along aimlessly, contemplating doing a piece on one of the great stone walls near the Thames. Knowing Zayn’s luck, he’d drown trying to finish it or it’d get washed away with the rain and the rising water. The Thames is too far from his flat anyway; he doesn’t want to have to come all the way back all cold and wet. 

So, he turns and heads toward Whitechapel and Bethnal Green Road. It’s a large area, but Zayn knows it’s a popular place for what he’s planning on doing. Full of large buildings with gloriously blank outer walls, just waiting to be marked. The closer he gets, the greater the urge is to get into his bag, look through all his nozzles and pick his colors. He’s thinking simple for tonight, black and white, maybe some green for highlight. 

Zayn stops on a corner, eyes following the line of the street down until he sees an alleyway that looks like it leads to the back of a building. That’s perfect. He jogs down, pleased to find a blank wall that’s relatively shielded from the outside street. There’s a good light source just to the right of him, so as the sun goes down he doesn’t have to worry about losing visibility. 

He sets his bag down and pulls his hood and his gloves on, along with a mask to keep out the fumes. 

In the end, he settles on gold as the highlight color for the lotus he paints. He doesn’t add any words to it, because it’s not any more political than the lotus tattooed on his arm is. It’s just something beautiful that he’d wanted to share, not start anything with. There are other artists for that. Maybe one day he’ll be one of them, but not right now. 

He packs his stuff and makes his way back to his flat, feeling a bit better about his art. The studio stuff will come. It always does.

*

On his first day as a staff photographer Harry manages to knock over two (incredibly expensive) racks of lights, spill three different cups of tea on himself, and send a plate of impeccably frosted cupcakes to the floor. All before lunch. Which, by the time lunch rolls around, he realizes that he’s forgotten his; left it in a little sack on his counter, his name written on it in Liam’s chicken-scratch. 

Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

Thankfully, everyone seems to find his klutziness endearing and not, you know, infuriating, which is more than he can ask for. He apologizes profusely each time-- especially for the lights, though none of them even broke-- and vows to keep his hands to himself. 

Yeah. Like that’ll ever happen. But it’s the thought that counts, yeah?

He spends his lunch with the staff stylist and hairdresser, Caroline and Lou, respectively. They’re nice women; sharp-witted and intimidatingly competent and think he’s adorable. Also, they take pity on him and let him order some Indian with him and refuse to take his money when he offers to pay. 

“Course not, darling,” Caroline says, waving her hand at him. “Think of it as a welcoming gift. Your first day, and all.” 

Harry frowns, but Lou nods, “She’s right, Harry. You deserve it, yeah?” 

“I suppose,” he says, still frowning, and Lou pinches his cheek. 

“Come on, it’s just some Indian food. Look, you can buy us lunch next week, if it really means that much to you.” 

“I’m holding you to that,” Harry says, pointing a finger at her and Caroline rolls her eyes. 

“Yeah, that’ll be a real hardship,” she says, laughing and Lou joins in. Harry allows himself a little smile, glad his day’s starting to get better. 

His first shoot is right after lunch, and he pops a piece of gum in, so he won’t have curry breath. He thinks that’d probably be rude, or something. 

Anyway, the model he’s shooting is named Cara, and she’s a real up-and-comer, Harry’s sure he’s seen her in a few adverts and things already. Still, they’re doing a piece on the seasons, or something? Harry’s not entirely sure. This one wasn’t one of his ideas, but that doesn’t mean he won’t do his best to shoot it well. 

Cara comes out dressed in all white, and a crown of sticks, maybe, or antlers that have been spraypainted so they fade from black at the tips to white where they rest on her head. She looks a bit like a terrifying reindeer winter queen, and yeah, Harry can work with this. 

“Hi, Cara, right?” She nods, giving him a smile. He returns it. “I’m Harry, I’ll be your photographer. Can I tell you a secret?” He leans in, motioning for her to do so as well. He grins when she does, and turns his head to speak right in her ear. 

“This is my first time, so be gentle, yeah?” He leans back, grinning at her, and she laughs, nods and trails her fingertips down his arm. 

“Of course,” she says, smiling, “wouldn’t want to scare you off.” 

And yeah, he’s still got it. 

The shoot goes well. While he’s still not entirely sure what the purpose of it was, the photos of Cara are breathtaking, though that’s mostly due to her face and not Harry’s photography skills. She looks fierce and regal in all of them, and a little silly in just a few where Harry got her to smile. He sends them all to Simon, since he has final say, and heads home. 

It’s not until later that he pulls the slip of paper out of his pocket with Cara’s number on it. Well then. He’s certainly not going to complain. 

*

Zayn wakes on Friday with a cottony feeling in his mouth, throat dry like it gets when he’s smoked too much and not had enough water. He glances at the clock, sighing when it tells him it’s only half-eight in the morning. It’s pretty shit, all things considered, and while he’d usually just roll back over to sleep more, the whole dryness thing is actually so distracting that he _can’t_ , so he figures he should take it seriously.

He rolls out of bed, padding to the bathroom, cupping his hand under the faucet and taking a few gulps. The water’s cold, refreshing, and he feels better, but also more awake, which means he’s going to end up being productive today. 

His phone buzzes somewhere in his room, and he sighs with the realization that that was probably what woke him in the first place. Damn it. He takes a few more drinks before splashing his face and turning the faucet off and goes to find his phone. It’s probably from Niall, telling him to get his lazy arse out of bed, or Danny maybe, or, heaven forbid, Perrie, asking _yet again_ about needing something she left in Zayn’s flat months ago. 

He really hopes it’s not Perrie. He can’t deal with that this early in the morning. 

“Your phone’s buzzing something mad, mate,” Niall says, standing in the doorway, still wearing his pyjamas. “You gonna get it?” 

“If I can find it,” Zayn grunts, tearing away at the pile of his stuff from last night. The phone buzzes again as he uncovers it, illuminating the notifications. There are three messages from Harry. 

_hi hope you had a good night because I had a blast xxx._ , his first one says, making Zayn frown. 

_oh shit, wrong person sorry zayn_

_though I do hope you had a good night too!!! xx._

He can’t help but laugh a bit, typing out a quick reply: 

_**it wasn’t too bad aha thanks**_

He looks up to find Niall examining him curiously, and he shrugs. 

“Just Harry,” he says, and Niall nods, turning and leaving the room. Zayn scrubs a hand through his hair and sighs. His phone buzzes again.

 _we’re still on for tonight, yeah?_ the message reads, and Zayn rolls his eyes. 

_**deffo. see you then** _

He drops his phone on his bed and goes into his closet. He traded his closing shift with Ed, so he’d be able to meet Harry and his friends earlier, but that means he’s got to be at work in less than half an hour. It’s not difficult, working in the bookshop. It’s mostly just sitting and waiting until someone comes in, and more than half the time they don’t buy anything. Zayn’s fairly certain the only reason they’re still open is the holiday and university business, and while it would normally give him some anxiety about job security, he thinks it’ll be alright today. 

He manages to get in only ten minutes late-- a new record for a shift this early-- and takes his seat at the stool behind the register. The place is dead empty, so Zayn pulls a sketchbook out of his bag and starts to draw. 

The first thing he sketches is the shop itself, empty and sad, with a tumbleweed blowing through like in those old American Western films. He abandons it halfway through shading, flipping to the next clean page to work on faces. He hasn’t done a life-drawing course in ages, so he’s just keeping his skills fresh. It’s important, and all that. He lets his hand move of its own accord, sketching a face without really thinking too much about it. It’s calming, in a way. And good practice.

Of course, when he blinks himself out of his haze to see that he’s ended up drawing someone that looks suspiciously like Harry, he figures maybe his skills don’t need that much of a touch up after all. 

The bell above the door rings as it opens and a group of teenagers walks in. Zayn shoves his sketchbook back into his bag and pushes it from his mind. Harry’s just a pretty bloke he met on the tube and befriended. He’s got a drawable face. That’s it. Really. 

*

Harry’s second day goes much better than the first, which means it’s uneventful, for the most part. He does almost manage to upend another plate of baked goods, but he catches them and rights the tray before anyone can notice. 

He trades lazy texts with Louis and Cara, checks with Zayn to make sure they’re still on for tonight, fucks around with the editing of the photos he took yesterday while waiting to hear back with the final word from Simon. He’s not really sure what he thought being a staff photographer would entail, but if it’s going to be bizarre photoshoots and not much else-- well, he could get used to that. 

He’s remembered his lunch this time-- turkey on marbled rye bread with pesto instead of mayo, a bit of lettuce and tomato and cheese that Liam made him this morning-- and has just opened it up when the phone on his desk rings. It’s nifty, really, that he’s got his own desk and own phone and computer and stuff. He doesn’t have an office, but no one really does, except for Simon and his assistant editor, Paul. 

“Harry Styles speaking,” he says into the receiver, tracing the edge of his sandwich with his finger. It smells so good. 

“Harry, hello,” Simon’s voice answers him, making Harry sit up straight in the chair, blinking. “When you’ve got a few moments, pop into my office, would you?” 

“I, um, sure,” he says. He laughs nervously, squeezing his hand around the phone. “I’m not in trouble or anything, am I?” He tries to make it sound like a joke, but he’s never been very good at that kind of thing. Simon laughs. 

“Not at all. Just whenever you have a moment.” 

“Of course,” Harry says. He hangs up and swallows around a lump, glancing back to his sandwich. He’s not sure that he’s hungry anymore.

He ends up staring at his sandwich for awhile, picking at the edges until he feels too sick to even look at it any longer. He puts it back in his lunch bag, dropping it in the bottom drawer of his desk before standing to make his way to Simon’s office. His stomach twists nervously the closer he gets to the closed door, and he takes a deep breath before lifting his hand to it. 

Maybe another deep breath just before knocking. Right. Yep. Good. 

“Come in!” A muffled voice floats through and Harry turns the knob, trying to arrange his face into something pleasant and not ridiculously nervous. 

Simon lifts an eyebrow at him curiously when they make eye contact. Harry’s never been too good at hiding how he feels. 

“All right?” Simon sounds genuinely concerned, which only makes a rush of embarrassment coil in Harry's stomach with all his other nerves. He’s such a prat. 

“Fine, fine. You wanted to see me?” 

Simon nods, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. Harry takes the seat while Simon turns away to rifle through some stacks of folders. “I wanted to show you something,” he says, turning back with a file in hand. He opens it, pulling out a sheet, placing it down in front of Harry. 

It’s Cara from the day before, her white body suit and makeup catching the lights just right, so she looks as if she’s glowing. Her face is serene, almost regal. She looks… God, Harry doesn’t even know how to describe it. She looks amazing. 

He took that picture. 

He swallows, throat working around a lump in his throat as his gaze flicks back up to Simon, trying to read him. Simon’s stoic as ever though, just peering back at Harry over the frames of his glasses. 

“Not too bad,” Harry says weakly, smiling. 

Simon doesn’t react for a long, unbearably tense moment, but then he smiles, and it’s like a crack through the stone wall of tension that’s built up in Harry’s chest. Relief and hope flood out as Simon leans back in his chair. 

“Not too bad at all, no,” he says, and Harry feels himself smiling again. “I’d like to give you the cover,” he continues, and Harry nearly falls out of his chair. 

“Thank you, oh my god,” he says in a rush, heat flooding to his cheeks. Claiming the cover spot with his first photoshoot as a part of the staff? That’s insane. Harry had expected something like this to take months. 

“You’re welcome,” Simon says. “Really, Harry. This is very good work. I’m impressed. Keep it coming.” 

Harry nods and Simon takes the picture back, slipping it back into the file folder and turning away, clearly dismissing Harry, who basically runs out of his office. 

The _cover._ Holy shit. 

*

By the time Zayn and Niall make it to the pub it’s almost ten-thirty, and there’s a chorus of loud, raucous laughter and cheering coming from what Zayn’s starting to understand is Harry’s usual booth. 

Zayn makes his way over there a bit slowly. It’s not that he can’t have fun-- he can have loads of fun, he _can_ \-- it’s just that he’s never really felt comfortable in loud groups. Too much attention, or whatever. It makes him nervous. 

It doesn’t help that he can see Harry plastered to Liam’s side as he approaches. Liam has one of his stupidly muscular arms around Harry’s waist and is holding him close, so close that Harry’s leaned his head on Liam’s broad shoulder. God. Why’d he have to befriend a pretty bloke with a model for a boyfriend? That’s self-sabotage if he’s ever heard it. 

They haven’t noticed him yet. He could still turn away and go home, text Harry something about getting ill or being busy with some unexpected errand. Except as soon as he thinks it, he hears Louis’ sharp voice cut through the noise around them. 

“Niall! Zayn!” He sounds angry but the twitch of his mouth makes him seem more amused than anything else. “You’re late for our celebrations.” 

“Didn’t know we were celebrating,” Niall says from beside him. Zayn doesn’t jump, but only because he’s used to Niall appearing out of bloody nowhere. “What’s all this, then?” 

“Our Hazza’s got his very first cover,” Liam supplies, ruffling Harry’s curls and looking so unspeakably fond that Zayn wants to vomit, a bit. Instead, he puts on a smile, nodding. 

“That’s ace, mate,” he says, trying not to be too pleased when Harry’s head snaps up, his bright gaze landing on Zayn and making him shiver. 

“Zayn,” he crows happily, extracting himself from Liam. “You came! M’so glad.” He stumbles out of the booth, practically crawling over Liam to snake his arms around Zayn’s waist and pull him in close for a hug. Zayn’s never been one for hugs, but Harry smells like posh cologne and laundry detergent, surrounds him in warm, solid weight that’s so good that he can’t help dipping his face into Harry’s neck for a brief second. 

Harry’s still grinning when Zayn pulls back to look at him, his eyes shining with what Zayn assumes is excitement and alcohol. 

“Really glad you came,” he murmurs, his pink lips shining and the huff of his breath smelling of rum. It should be disgusting, probably, but all Zayn can think about is whether or not his mouth would taste of it if he kisses him. 

That...will probably turn into an issue at some point. Shit. 

“‘Course, wouldn’t miss it,” he says, stretching his mouth into a smile. Harry still hasn’t let him go. Zayn doesn’t have it in himself to pull away. “You’re my best mate from the tube, n’all. Special bond, like.” 

Harry’s face lights up at that and he beams like the fucking sun setting through a stained-glass window. Bright and blinding and absolutely fucking beautiful. 

His arm tightens around Zayn’s waist, and he leans in to say something else. 

“Hazza,” Liam calls, and fuck, oh fuck, _Liam._ Harry’s _boyfriend._ “Let our Zaynie breathe, yeah?” 

Harry stiffens and pulls back, his arm sliding off Zayn’s waist and leaving him cold. Harry frowns, and Zayn wants to lean forward and kiss it off him, boyfriend be damned. 

“Sorry,” Harry tells him, voice low and his gaze flickering between Liam and Zayn. He looks heartbroken, all sad puppy eyes, and Zayn can’t figure it out for the life of him. “Sorry, sit down, please. I’ll get you a drink.” 

He slides in the booth after only a moment’s hesitation, looking between Harry and Liam, confused. Liam doesn’t look mad or anything, just confused. “Jack and coke,” he says, because Harry’s still standing and looking at him expectantly, and he seriously needs a fucking drink. 

He watches Harry walk away, the little sway to his hips that drives him mad. Harry disappears into the crowd and Zayn wrenches his gaze away and back to the table. Liam pats his leg and says, “I know mate, I know,” before launching into a story about something that happened at the boxing ring the other day. 

Zayn nods along, laughs in all the right places and doesn’t look up when a drink appears in front of him. He takes it, mumbles out a “thanks” and downs half of it in one go.

\--

He wakes the next morning surprisingly clear-headed considering the five drinks he'd consumed over the course of the night. The three glasses of water Niall made him chug probably have something to do with it. He'll have to thank Niall properly. If he remembers.

In any case, it's easy for him to get out of bed, even though the sunlight's just starting to peek through his curtains and over his sheets. Normally he'd be asleep until noon at least, but he feels good about today. Energized, like.

Like he could get some real work done.

After some wake-up stretching and a shower, Zayn gets dressed and scribbles out a note to Niall, letting him know that he'll probably be in the studio all day. He catches the tube, takes his usual seat and leans his head back against the window. The rhythm of the train on the tracks lulls him into a zen-like state, his mind free and clear of all distractions and noise. It’s how he feels when he does his street art, most of the time. 

He closes his eyes, letting colors and lines and shapes flash through until he settles on an idea. The train slows to a stop and he blinks, scrambling to exit and make his way to his studio, more than ready to begin. 

–

The canvas stretches over the wall, huge and blank and fresh off the roll. Zayn tends to avoid using pieces this big unless he's absolutely sure what's going on there, but this time he is. He knows.

He picks up his pencil, sketches a rough outline and pulls his face mask down over his mouth. He doesn't need it for traditional painting, normally, but he thinks maybe it’ll help get him in the mood for this. He’s been blocked for an annoyingly long time, so if this idea doesn’t pan out like he wants it to, he’s seriously fucked. 

Zayn dips his brush into the little pot of light blue he’s mixed, poises it over the canvas for a moment, inhaling as deeply as he can and holding it. 

_Here it goes_ , he thinks, and begins to paint. 

\--

The next two weeks pass in a flurry of activity. Zayn’s busy with classes and revising and painting painting painting. He’s got to be finished with at least two more pieces by mid-term, and he’s only about halfway done with his first. Maybe he shouldn’t have done the largest one first, but, whatever. 

The piece is coming along just how Zayn wants it to, no matter how slowly. Though, slow’s more of a relative term in this case, considering how fucking long it took him to even get an idea. Any spare time that he hasn’t spent revising has him holed up in the studio, paint splattering his clothes-- cherry red, rosy pink, rich brown, sky blue and a pale green-- and coming off his hands in dried flecks. His box of cigarettes looks like some strange mix of Jackson Pollock and Andy Warhol, pop art and some radical new contemporary at its finest.

He doesn't spend much time with anyone besides himself, too caught up in his work and his own life to spare much of a thought for how his friends might be doing. He responds to text messages when he gets them, but not always in a timely fashion, and he knows that bothers most people but Zayn just can't be arsed to care about it. Niall knows him well enough that he lets him be, but Zayn's not sure how anyone else might react to it.

Well, alright. He's not sure how _Harry_ will react to it.

He's a bit of a social creature, that Harry, and while Zayn can be social, he's obviously more introverted. He doesn't need the attention or the exposure to the general stupidity of mankind that most people seem to, and that's how he likes it. He's just not certain anyone else really sees it that way.

Zayn's phone beeps with a message, startling him from his thoughts and making him tear his gaze away from the section of black he's just started on the bottom of his canvas.

 _going 4 drinksssss 2niteeeeeee,_ it reads, and Zayn has to roll his eyes at Liam's preferred way of expressing himself. _wuld b excellnt if u culd join!!!!!_

Zayn stares at the message until his screen goes black, and looks up at his painting, chewing on his bottom lip. He could go out with Liam and the lads and give himself a break, or he could stay and finish this and start on his next one. The next two paintings he's got planned are small and won't take long, he knows. It shouldn't take more than a few hours to finish this one for today.

 _name a time and I'll be there,_ he sends back, grinning when liam's reply consists of _sick!!!!!!!!!_ and the requested time. 

He slips his phone back into his bag and picks up his brush again, trying not to think about the fact that it's usually Harry who invites him, and how Harry hasn't texted him in days, actually, and how sad it makes him. They're only sort of friends, Zayn reasons, so he shouldn't feel this disappointed. Liam's a great guy and he's really great for Harry. Zayn should be okay with being friends with both of them.

Zayn _is_ okay with being friends with both of them.

*

Harry's slouched in the booth across from Louis and Liam, watching them laugh about how the woman at the bar just turned down Niall for the second time this week and he feels unbearably fond. They're just so great, his friends are. The best. Just really, really the best.

He may be a little tipsy as well, but that has no bearing on how brilliant his friends are.

“I love you,” he blurts, interrupting something Lou's saying, making him roll his eyes. Liam laughs, but Harry's not sure why. It wasn't funny, was it?

He frowns. “Really,” he says, because it's very important that they know this. “I really love you.”

“Love you too, Hazza,” Liam says, reaching over to pat Harry's hand, sighing when Harry sneakily flips his around to twine their fingers. It's just-- he's been terribly busy the past couple of weeks with work and trying to do his best every day and live up to Simon's expectations. He feels like he's hardly seen them at all, and that's just wrong.

“Isn't this sweet,” someone says, and Harry blinks, turning to see Zayn and Niall standing at the edge of the table. Zayn's eyebrows' quirked up and his mouth has a twist to it that Harry knows means he thinks something's kind of funny. It doesn't quite reach his eyes, though. Christ, Zayn has such expressive eyes. Harry could do a series on them. He should do that, actually, and have the prints framed and hang them in his living room.

Or not, maybe. Probably not.

“M'very sweet,” he says, much too late, frowning when he feels Liam's hand sliding away. It pulls his attention away from Zayn, pouting at Liam instead.

“Sorry, gotta get some drinks, Haz,” Liam says, probably trying to keep from rolling his eyes. It's a dirty habit he picked up from Louis. Harry seriously resents their friendship sometimes. (No he doesn't, that's a total lie.)

“Come back soon.” It's plaintive and a little needy, probably, but Liam has to be used to it by now, after being friends with Harry for so long.

“So,” Zayn says after Liam's disappeared into the mass of bodies at the bar. “Y'alright?”

Harry turns to him, blinking again. God, he's just so-- he's just so stupidly beautiful. Like, unfairly. Harry's been told he's pretty on more than one occasion, but Zayn is like. Indescribable. Like he's made out of marble, smooth and sharp and practically flawless, but if you give him a good shove he'd still shatter against the ground anyway. Harry doesn't know what to do about it.

“Fine,” Harry finally chokes out, stretching his mouth into a smile. “Fine, good. Been busy, sorry. Lots of stuff at work.”

Zayn laughs, leaning back in the booth. Harry can't help but let his gaze wander over the line of him, the contrast of his dark leather jacket against the red vinyl seats. “Me too,” he says, “Finally got started on stuff for class.”

Harry leans forward, interested. “Yeah? Tell me about it.”

“Well,” Zayn says, shrugging a shoulder, “Just like, a concept, finally. Most of a big piece, too.”

Is he being vague on purpose, or does he really think Harry's uninterested? It's so hard to tell. Harry hates it. “What's the concept, then?” he pushes, nudging Zayn's knee with his own. Zayn's gaze flicks down and back up, and he's smiling a little.

“S'called _Strangers on a Train_.”

Huh. “Like the Hitchcock film?”

Zayn nods. “A little. Less murder, though. No murders, actually. Just like--” he waves a hand around, like that'll actually help Harry understand anything, “-- Meet a lot of people on the tube, yeah? S'about that.”

 _Huh._ “Zayn,” Harry says with a grin and what he hopes is a seductive purr in his voice. Knowing his luck, he probably misses the mark. “Are you doing a project about me?”

“ _No,_ ” Zayn says, but he also won't meet Harry's eyes. Harry was kidding, mostly, but it's obvious that Zayn is touchy about his art.

“Sorry,” he says, leaning back, “Didn't mean to like--”

“No, it's not you, it's--”

“Drinks here!”

Liam's voice interrupts their bumbling apologies, his hands wrapped around the necks of some bottles. Harry takes one gratefully, scooting over so Zayn can scoot over and Liam can slip in on the end next to him. Zayn takes a bottle as well, and turns his attention to Liam.

Right. Of course. It's so easy to forget, when Liam's not there. He watches Liam grin at something Zayn says and duck in to say something else. He allows himself a moment to frown before turning to Niall and Louis, determined to ignore what's happening behind him.

There are other fish in the sea. Harry's bound to find one of them one day. Really.

*

“Oh, OH, Niall, wait, I want to show you something,” Harry slurs from across the booth, and Zayn willfully ignores it. Harry's been acting like that all night, all loud and strange but avoiding Zayn's gaze. Zayn's afraid it might be because he's been talking to Liam for most of the night, but Liam hasn't shown any interest in giving someone else his attention and Harry's been wrapped up in Louis and Niall anyway, so who the fuck cares?

“I was near Whitechapel the other day, Bethnal Green or summat, I think, and I saw this, like, street art,” he's saying, and Zayn can't even pretend to ignore that, or Harry showing Niall something on his phone. A picture, probably.

Niall grins at the phone and nudges Louis, whose eyebrows quirk up, appreciative. “S'nice,” he says, narrowing his eyes before letting them go back to normal. “I like the gold.”

“Let me see,” Zayn says before he can stop himself, and Harry startles at it, turning and looking at Zayn as if he'd forgotten that he was there at all.

“It reminds me of your arm, actually,” Harry says, passing him the phone, and Zayn can't help but smile at the photograph of his lotus from a few weeks ago. He's surprised it's stayed this long. He feels a bit proud of that.

“S'because I did it,” he says, handing Harry back his phone. Harry's brow creases, like it does when he's confused, and Zayn nods. “The lotus. I did that. Painted it on that wall.”

“Oh,” Harry says, but it's more of an exhalation of breath than anything.

“Good work, mate,” Niall tells him, and Zayn raises his glass a bit.

“Cheers. It's not much, but.” He shrugs.

“It's beautiful,” Harry says, and all of Zayn's breath freezes up in his body for a moment.

“Thanks,” he says, because he doesn't know what else to say.

Harry smiles at him, looking for a moment before turning back to Niall and Louis. That's that, then.

 

*

Harry paces outside the door to Simon's office for a good five minutes before working up the courage to knock, and another ten seconds preparing himself to actually do it. When Simon's voice rumbles through the barrier and says, “Come in!”, Harry feels himself tense up for no reason.

He can do this. It's just like pitching any other project, really. Exactly like it.

“Harry, hello,” Simon says when he enters, about as warmly as Harry's ever heard him speak. Which, isn't saying much, but it's hopeful. “What can I do for you?”

“Hi, um, I just--” Harry fidgets for a moment before running a hand through his hair. He sighs, taking a seat. He doesn't know why he's so nervous about this. It's just an idea. The worst thing Simon can do is say no.

“I have this idea,” he says finally, and Simon purses his lips in a thoughtful sort of way and takes off his reading glasses. He leans forward, hands clasped on his desk.

“Let's hear it, then.”

*

 _so I maybe have a favor to ask you and it's totally ok if you say no_ , Harry's text reads, and Zayn frowns at it, exhaling smoke into the night air.

 _ **yeah? Got to know what it is before I can reject it, mate,**_ he sends back, taking another drag.

It's a late night at the studio; he's been here since right after dinner, painting until his arms shook and he had to stop for a cig. He's only got one more section on his large piece, and the other two are mostly finished as well. His professor looked at them the day before last and told him to keep it up. He also mentioned something about reserving some space in a gallery for him, but Zayn pretended he hadn't heard. He's not sure what to do with that kind of pressure.

 _let me take some photos of you tagging for my magazine?_ harry's response says, and Zayn frowns again.

_no article or anything, and your face doesn't have to be in them_

_not because it's not a good face but for anonymity and stuff_

_you have a very nice face_

Zayn snorts and rolls his eyes, stubbing out his cigarette.

 _ **heard that one before, aha. But sure. Dunno why anyone'd be interested, but we can give it a shot**_ , he sends back, more out of curiosity to see how Harry works than anything else.

And maybe the possibility that he'll get to spend some time alone with him.

_give it a shot, good one, ha!_

_Sorry I love puns_

_but oh god really?? you're brilliant mate, seriously. Give me your e-mail and I'll send you the details?? xx_

Zayn rolls his eyes, dutifully typing out his e-mail and trying not to feel so fucking fond.

*

Harry's breath puffs out in front of him in a cloud and he coughs, rubbing his hands together. It's fucking _freezing_ , but he'd somehow got it in his head that he needed to shoot Zayn and his artwork in the middle of the bloody night. 

Simon had let him take point on this one, which meant there wasn’t really anyone to tell Harry that his ideas were verging on idiotic. 

At least he’s not subjecting any crew to this, though. It’s just him and Zayn. That’ll be good. Really good. 

He meets Zayn outside the tube station between their flats, his main camera packed safely in its case and his backup slung over his shoulder. Harry’s already arranged for the whole thing to be set up, big lights and a nice blank wall for Zayn to tag without the chance of getting in trouble. Mostly they just need to get there and do it. 

Harry’s sort of inexplicably nervous about the whole thing, and as they walk out of the station near the warehouse they’ll be in, he can tell Zayn is more tense than usual. They haven’t said much, which isn’t all that strange, but the silence hasn’t been comfortable, like it usually is. It’s hard to describe. 

“Alright?” Harry asks, nudging Zayn with his elbow. Zayn looks up at him, nodding. 

“Yeah, just not used to having anyone with me,” he says, scratching at the back of his neck. “It’s a bit private, yeah?” 

“Right,” Harry says with a nod. “Well, I can’t thank you enough for letting me do this. Seriously.” 

Zayn smiles, a brief flash of something that thaws Harry’s chest out a bit. “No problem, mate,” he says, “Couldn’t imagine anyone else I’d share it with.” 

“Even Liam?” Harry asks before he can stop himself. God, he’s so awkward. Zayn looks at him curiously, though, brow furrowed. 

“Nah,” he says, like he’s being careful about it. “Liam’s great, but I dunno if he’d really, like, get it. Y’know?” 

Harry nods. He knows exactly what Zayn means. Sure, Liam’s been the subject of tons of different photoshoots for Harry, but that was just him being supportive and lovely. He doesn’t really understand why Harry wants to wake up at 5AM to catch the whole sunrise, or why he’d set his camera on a timer and a delayed shutter speed to catch the blur of images outside their windows. Which also isn’t to say that Liam doesn’t appreciate the final product, because he does, and Harry knows he does. It’s about control, maybe. Harry feels he has more control if he’s behind the camera, and Liam feels better in front of it. It’s not bad, just a difference of opinion.

Anyway, the rest of their trek to the warehouse is silent, save for the sound of their footsteps against the concrete. Harry unlocks the huge iron doors with the key he’d gotten from Lou the day before, pushing them open to reveal a huge empty room, screens and lights set up against the far wall, that’s been painted over just as Harry requested. 

“This’ll work for you?” he asks Zayn, letting himself drink in Zayn’s profile as he examines it all. 

“Yeah, it’ll do,” he says, moving toward the back. Harry shuts the doors behind them. 

He decides to do it in stages. 

First: the blank wall and Zayn sketching out his design. Or whatever it is that he does first. He's here to learn, really, and he can't help but be endlessly fascinated by the way Zayn chews at his bottom lip as he's looking through a notebook.

“Have you got something planned already?” he asks, adjusting the camera's settings a bit. He snaps a photo when Zayn looks up, grinning.

Zayn frowns at him. “No sneak attacks.”

“Sorry,” Harry shrugs. “Kind of goes with the business.”

“Sure,” Zayn says, and looks back down at the drawings he has. Harry watches him for a moment longer, lifting the camera to his eye again.

“Say cheese,” he says by way of warning, and snaps another before Zayn has time to react. 

Zayn looks up again, rolling his eyes this time, but he doesn't look upset. No, he looks more like he can't help but be endeared by it. Harry's used to that. He tends to have that effect on people. He grins.

“Shut up,” Zayn says, even though Harry’s not said a single thing. “Are we doing this or not?”

“Suppose we are. Go on then, Mr. Artist. Impress me.”

Zayn gives him a flat look and Harry wiggles his eyebrows at him until the expression breaks and he's laughing, tongue pressed against the back of his teeth and his eyes crinkling. Harry feels his breath catch and his hands move by themselves, snapping a picture before he can think about it.

Zayn's stopped laughing by the time Harry's lowered the camera, but his eyes are still crinkled up, like he could start again at any moment. Harry never wants to stop taking pictures of him.

“Can't say this is exactly what I pictured when I thought of you working, mate,” Zayn says, and Harry blinks, brow furrowing.

“What?”

“This.” Zayn gestures at him in a vague way that explains absolutely nothing. “The like, laughing. The sneak attacks. Dunno. Thought you'd be more professional-like.”

Harry raises an eyebrow at him-- a move he's perfected from years of friendship with Louis. “Do you or do you not remember the first time we met?”

Zayn barks out a laugh at that, covering his mouth with his hand and shaking his head. Harry's never seen him be this open. It's sort of amazing. “Alright, whatever,” he says eventually, shaking his head. “We doing this or not?”

It's the second time Zayn's asked him that, like he can't quite believe Harry would want to photograph him in the first place. Harry isn't sure what else to do to reassure him other than fiddle with his camera and nod.

“We are, yeah,” he says. “Definitely.”

“Let's get to it,” Zayn says, and turns away to start sketching on the wall.

Watching Zayn work is fascinating.

Well, at first it's a bit awkward, because Harry can tell he's nervous and tense about having someone watch him. The click of the camera shutter probably doesn't do much to help, but eventually-- when he starts painting, really-- Zayn relaxes, focuses on the painting and doesn't seem to take anything else in. Harry's more used to talking to the people he photographs, getting them to react and reveal things they wouldn't otherwise, but this isn't so much about Zayn as it is about Zayn's art. So it's fine if they don't speak.

He'd put on music, Zayn had. It's mostly Drake and Naughty Boy and Kanye; music he wouldn't have thought for Zayn would be interested in but that's blasting out of the little speakers of the sound system Harry'd had the forethought to request. Zayn gets as lost in the music as he does in the painting, bopping his head or swaying along to the beat. Harry takes picture after picture after picture, moving around as silently and gracefully as possible.

Of course, the whole 'graceful' thing goes about as well as one might expect, with Harry involved.

He trips over a discarded can of paint and goes down with a shout and a loud crash. The can rolls away, innocuous as it comes to a stop against the wall. Harry sighs and holds his camera to his chest.

“Harry, shit--” He hears the clatter of a paint can and a frantic pattering of footsteps. Zayn's face appears over his a moment later, looking concerned and beautiful, a light just behind him creating a sort of halo. Harry takes a picture, just because he can.

“I was gonna ask if you're okay, but that answers that,” Zayn says with an eye roll, holding out a hand, his fingertips stained blue. Harry takes it, pulling himself up into a standing position with Zayn's help. He overbalances a bit-- obviously, because he's Harry, what else is he going to do-- and stumbles, but Zayn catches him easily, like he expected it. His hands are firm around Harry's biceps, steadying him as he looks up at Harry's face with that piercing sort of gaze he has, and it makes Harry's belly flutter with inexplicable nerves. No. Not inexplicable. Perfectly explicable, but perhaps ill-advised. Definitely ill-advised.

“Think I'm good now,” he says roughly, clearing his throat and trying to take a step back. Zayn blinks and lets go of him, taking a step back of his own, as if he's just realized something.

“Right. 'Course.” He turns away, picking up the can he'd dropped in his haste to get to Harry-- and doesn't that thought just bring up another bout of those ill-advised nerves-- and goes back over to the wall. “If you think you can handle walking around some more.”

Harry flushes at that, embarrassed but also stupidly pleased at the teasing.

“I can handle it, promise,” he says. The only reply he gets is the sound of the spray paint hitting the wall.

*

It only takes a few hours for Zayn to finish the piece he's decided on-- a minimal and quick design because he didn't want to keep Harry stuck in a photo shoot forever just so he could do something someone else might find like, _worthy_ of being in a douchebag hipster magazine.

Which, as far as he can tell, the magazine Harry works for is definitely one that douchebag hipsters would read, so he's not really sure what it is he's actually trying to accomplish.  
Still, the point is, it doesn't take long.

He steps back from the wall when he's done with it, setting the can down and pulling his face mask down around his neck. He hears the rapid clicking of Harry's camera, glad (not for the first time tonight) that there's no obnoxious flash. He can only imagine what Harry's thinking, what it looks like through his lens and how it'll look once the photos have been printed onto glossy pages.

The warehouse goes quiet, save for the music still playing from the speakers, and Zayn finally turns to Harry, who's staring at the wall, his eyes wide.

“You like it?” he asks, just for something to say. And yeah, alright, he'd like the affirmation too. He can admit that.

“It's great,” Harry says, breathes out, in again and-- “It's beautiful.”

It's a ship at sea, a big wave just behind it, ready to capsize it. Zayn's not sure _beautiful_ is really the best word to describe it, but he supposes he can't really control people's reactions to the shit he makes.

“Thanks,” he says. “Sucks we have to leave it here.”

Harry looks at him then, eyebrows scrunched up on his forehead like they get. “That's what we have this for,” he says, waving his camera around a bit. “You want to see the shots?”

Zayn swallows thickly at the thought. Sure, the whole point of this had been to find out what he looks like through Harry's perspective, but the idea still freaks him out a bit.

“Nah,” he says finally, shaking his head. “I'll just wait til the magazine, yeah?”

Harry frowns. “That might take awhile.”

Zayn shrugs, “It'll be worth it.”

Harry smiles at that, and it feels like a small explosion, a burst of sunlight hitting Zayn in the face after being cooped up all day. His breath catches and he has to exhale slowly to ease some of the tightness in his chest. Harry doesn't notice, just keeps on smiling and looking from Zayn, to the wall, and back to Zayn again.

“So,” Zayn says eventually, when he feels like he can breathe again, “Do we need to clean any of this up, or...”

“Huh? Oh, no,” Harry shakes his head. “Someone will come and do it tomorrow or next week or whenever. Don't worry about it. You-- er. You ready to leave, then?”

Zayn nods. “Yeah, let me get my stuff.”

Harry packs up his camera as Zayn packs up his sketches. They meet at the large iron doors, Zayn pushing them open before Harry puts a hand on the light switch, staring down at the wall for a long, long moment. Zayn nudges him with his boot, and Harry startles, as if he'd forgotten where they were.

“Sorry,” he says, flicking the switches and plunging the warehouse into darkness. “Let's go.”  
Zayn follows him out. 

*

Harry's just unwrapped his sandwich when the phone on his desk rings. He sighs. He's _starving._ Olly had called out with some emergency, and Harry, being the kind soul he is, agreed to cover the shoot he was scheduled for so the client didn't take their business elsewhere. Which means he had to push his lunch back by two hours. The sound of a camera shutter is loud, but not really loud enough to cover a growling stomach. Embarrassing.

He stares at his sandwich longingly before picking up the phone.

“ _GAZE Magazine_ , Harry Styles speaking.”

“Harry, it's Simon, pop by my office when you've got a moment if you would,” Simon says, like Harry doesn't recognize the sound of his voice by now. He also knows that "when you've got a moment" actually means "as soon as possible."

He looks at his sandwich forlornly before responding, “Of course, be there in a moment.”

\--

He takes a seat in Simon's office, hands clasped nervously on his lap as Simon peers at him over the rim of his glasses. He doesn't say anything for a long moment. Harry smiles weakly at him, as if that'll help anything.

“I took a big chance on letting you choose this shoot, Harry,” he says finally, and Harry feels his stomach drop, his chest tighten. “You've been here barely three months. It's rare for anyone to even make the cover until their sixth.”

“Right,” Harry says with a grimace. His palms have started to sweat from being pressed together, so he unclasps his hands and rubs them down his thighs. “I--”

“This will make your second cover piece in three months,” Simon says, steamrolling him, slapping a folder down on the desk in front of him. He nods to it. “Open it,” he says, as if Harry doesn't know exactly what's in there.

He picks up the folder with trembling hands, using his thumb to flip it open slowly. He's seen the photos already, obviously. He picked them out to send to Simon, for Christ's sake, but it's always different once they've been printed. There's something that seems so permanent about them. Like they'll last forever, even as fragile as they are.

The first photo is his favorite from the whole night. It's one he took from the side, so the edge of the mural is in it, but so is Zayn, in profile. He's got his hood up and his paint mask on so it's all that anyone can really see of his face, his eyes hidden in the black of the hood. The light shines behind him, making him glow and catching on the paint as it sprays out of the can. Harry feels like he could stare at it for hours. Days, even.

He flips through the rest, six out of the thirty he'd picked from the hundreds he'd took. If it were up to him, he'd make a whole book full of Zayn and his art.

“Thank you,” he says, looking up at Simon. “I mean-- really. For everything. I-- um. I really appreciate it.”

“It's nothing you haven't earned,” Simon says, looking at Harry carefully, like he's trying to figure him out. Like a puzzle, almost. “It'll run next month. That's all I needed you for.”

Harry nods, swallowing around a lump as he places the folder back on Simon's desk. Another cover. Well, that certainly calls for a celebration. Definitely.

*

Zayn walks into his studio to find his professor already in there, staring at the large piece Zayn's finally finished. It's mostly sky blue and black, some peach and pink and red and green mixed in as well. It's clearly a person, but meant to look sort of hazy. Like a memory. Zayn's not sure it reads all that well. 

“We didn't have a meeting or anything, did we?” he asks, apparently startling his professor, Julian, because he turns sharply, eyes wide at Zayn. 

“No, no we didn't, but I wanted to see how you were coming along.” He nods back to the canvas behind him. “Well, it seems. Considering the block you were having.” 

Zayn nods, feeling a bit awkward about the whole thing. It's not that he dislikes Julian, more that he just wasn't expecting him. He's not good at dealing with the unexpected. 

“Took a while, but yeah. Got inspired, like.” _Met a fit boy on the tube_ is more accurate, but Julian doesn't need to know that. 

Julian hums out his approval and turns to look at the other, smaller pieces. Zayn's planning for three on either side of the large piece, sort of reminiscent of a comic book, though it's not really the point. The top left is one of the train station, swarms of bodies pressed in between large walls. The next is the empty train rushing by, and the third, the bottom, people crammed into the train, bone-tired and weary. All three have been painted in shades of grey and white.

The series on the right is similar, but painted in vibrant colors: first, a view of the people on the train, the crowded station and stairs, and finally, the view of the street above, the bright blue sky peeking between the buildings. 

“What're you calling it?” 

Zayn clears his throat. “ _Strangers on a Train,_ ” he mumbles, his cheeks heating a bit. He knows it's inane, but it's all he could think of that wasn't stupidly pretentious. 

“I like it,” Julian laughs. “Is this--” he motions to the large piece, “--the stranger?” 

“Suppose,” Zayn shrugs, setting his bag down. “Figure I'm pretty much done with it all.” 

Julian nods and turns to look at the pieces one last time. “And these are just for a grade?” 

“Sorry?” 

“You're turning them in and then, what? Take them home?” 

Zayn shifts uncomfortably. He hadn't really thought about it that much, only started painting and knew he'd turn them in at some point. “Dunno,” he says, “Suppose I'll take them home, yeah.” 

“What about a gallery?” Julian's looking at him oddly, like Harry sometimes does whenever Zayn talks about his art. He doesn't have any idea what it means. It's fucking infuriating. 

“Dunno,” he repeats, a hair defensively. “Hadn't thought much about it.” 

“You should,” Julian says. “I know some people, if you'd like.” 

Zayn doesn't answer, doesn't know _how_ to answer, so he just nods shakily, hand covering his phone in his pocket as it vibrates against his thigh. 

“I'll think about it,” he says, and Julian smiles at him. 

–

 _our shoot's gonna be next month's cover!!!_ Harry's text reads when Zayn checks it after Julian's left. 

He inhales deeply, holding it for a moment before exhaling. 

_**cool. Celebrate soon?**_

_of course! I'll gather up the lads. Usual place?_

Zayn chews on his bottom lip, glancing up at his paintings before looking back down at his phone to type out his reply. 

_**nah. Was thinking a proper celebration.** _

_where you lead, I follow. xx._

*

Harry's never been to the club Zayn suggested a few weeks ago-- when he'd first told him that they'd gotten the cover-- but apparently Louis has, judging from the laughing fit he has when Harry tells him the name. 

“What's so funny?” Harry pouts at him, setting down the stack of issues he'd stolen from the office. He makes enough to buy them, sure, but taking them from the box in the break room had felt much cooler. Besides, he only took three. One for himself, one for Zayn and one for his mum. He's not sure Zayn will want one, especially considering part of his face is on the cover, but, well, Harry thought he'd at least try. 

“Six Below is one of the trashiest bars I've ever been to, Haz,” Louis tells him, rolling his eyes. Harry doesn't go out much, at least not out _dancing_ , so it's not as if he'd know. He's hardly in uni anymore. “Zayn must want to pull.” 

That makes something heavy drop into Harry's stomach and he frowns. He'd been pretty certain that Zayn was interested in Liam, but it has been awhile, and Liam's not said anything about them hooking up. And Harry's certain he would've, if anything had happened by now. So maybe Zayn's not interested in Liam. 

So maybe Harry has a chance. 

Something must change on his face, because Louis lets out another laugh and claps him on the shoulder. “Easy mate,” he murmurs, and Harry frowns at him. 

Louis rolls his eyes again. “We've got a few hours. You can stop mentally planning your outfit. You'll only drive yourself mad.” 

“You'd be doing the same thing,” Harry says, fighting the urge to cross his arms like a petulant child. Really, he's just upset because Louis can read him so well. He's always been so obvious, it's awful. 

“Probably,” Louis admits with a shrug, nudging his shoulder into Harry's. “And you'd be telling me to chill out. So.” 

Harry makes a face at him. “Yeah, I suppose,” he says, mimicking Louis' shrug. 

Louis sighs. “Fine, let's raid your closet, then.” 

Harry beams at him. He really is lucky to have a friend like Louis. 

–

The moment they step into Six Below, Harry understands what Louis had meant. It's a big place; lit with dim, strangely colored lights and fog machines on the dance floor. There's a bar right by the front entrance that already has people crowded around it. Harry can't see much past the bar and the dance floor, but there are other sections, he's sure. There have to be. The place looked too big from the outside for there not to be. 

Louis and Liam nod at the bar and head for it as Harry makes his way through the crush of bodies toward the back. There's a bit of an opening, what looks like another bar, and a little separated room with tables and booths. One of the booths is occupied by a couple who're sitting too closely together for that to end in anything except sex, and another is empty, save a few cups on the surface of the table, ice all melted. Harry finds Zayn in the corner booth, playing with his box of cigarettes. 

“Y'alright?” Harry asks, sliding in to sit by him. Zayn startles and looks up, smirking at him after a moment. He looks-- God, he looks good. His hair's all slicked back in a quiff, and the shitty lighting makes his eyes look dark and-- and sultry, or some other cliché word that Harry avoids using in everyday life. He's got a leather jacket on, and some black skinnies with Doc Martens, and Harry absolutely wants to ruin him. Just press him against the sticky vinyl seat of the booth and kiss him until he's breathless, until his lips are red and swollen. 

“Good, yeah,” Zayn answers, and Harry blinks, realizing he's been staring for a few seconds too long. He tears his gaze away, looks toward the door to see if Louis and Liam are following. He feels Zayn shift next to him and gets bombarded with the rich scent of Gucci in the next second, and if he'd been standing, he's sure his knees would've buckled. Christ, how'd he let it get this bad? 

“Good,” Harry chokes out, giving Zayn a weak smile. Zayn looks at him for a moment, an uneasy sort of tilt to his mouth, before he shifts again, leaning closer to Harry. 

“Got something to tell you,” he says in a low voice, as if the couple-- now snogging each others' faces off-- might hear them. Harry leans in anyway, just because he can. 

“Yeah?” He pitches his voice low on purpose, just to see what Zayn'll do. Zayn's gaze flickers a bit, going from Harry's eyes to his mouth and back up again in a flash. He might've missed it if he hadn't been watching so intently. 

“Yeah,” Zayn shifts closer, enough that his bony knee is digging into Harry's thigh, creating a white hot pressure point. “I--” 

“What's all this, then?” Liam's voice interrupts him, and Zayn jumps back as if he's been burnt. Harry sags a bit, like the momentum with which Zayn moved caused him to fall too, like the opposite of a blowback. A blow-forward, maybe. He swallows, grits his teeth and turns to Liam, smiling tightly at him. 

“Just talking, obviously. That mine?” He nods his head toward the pink drink in Liam's hand. Liam nods and gives it over, sliding into the booth next to him. Louis follows a moment later, handing Zayn a drink before joining them. They sit in tense silence for a few minutes before Liam clears his throat and asks,

“So, where's Niall?” 

And that's interesting, Harry thinks. He's never given much thought to Niall, or, more specifically, Niall's relationship with Liam. Perhaps there's a reason Liam isn't interested in Zayn. Perhaps that reason is blond and Irish. 

“He's coming later,” Zayn says, interrupting Harry's train of thought. He shifts, and Harry feels Zayn's knee brush his thigh again, and he has to grip his cup a bit tighter to keep from closing his hand around Zayn's leg instead. “He's got to work late.” 

“Oh,” Liam says, a bit lamely. The booth falls into silence again. 

“Well, fuck this,” Louis blurts after a second. “I'm getting some shots and we're celebrating. Who's in?” 

Harry shrugs and nods as Liam and Zayn do the same. That is why they're here, after all. 

–

Two drinks and three shots later, everything's hazy. Hazy and fun and _good._ Somewhere around the second shot Liam had suggested they actually get up and dance, so they had. Louis had immediately been stolen away by a bloke even taller than Harry with a quiff and a huge mouth, and Liam, not long after, had ended up in the DJ booth. Somehow. Harry really doesn't know. 

In any case, that means he's still dancing with Zayn, one of Zayn's skinny legs shoved in between his thighs and their bodies rolling to the beat together. They really aren't doing much but grinding and grabbing at each other's clothes, but that and the sight and smell of Zayn himself have got Harry half-hard in his jeans. He slides a palm down Zayn's back, coming to rest at his arse, cupping it and pulling him in closer. He feels Zayn shiver against him, feels him tug at at the curls at the nape of Harry's neck, making him groan and his hips stutter in their rhythm. 

“What did you have to tell me,” Harry asks, mouthing the words against Zayn's ear. “Earlier. What did you need to say?” 

“Nothing important,” Zayn says, the hand in Harry's curls tightening, his thumb pressing in hard on the tendon in Harry's neck. He whimpers, pawing at Zayn's chest. This has to be-- this is clear. Clear intentions, more than just aimless flirting. Even drunk, Harry can understand that. 

He does his best to straighten himself out, presses his forehead to Zayn's and wraps an arm around his shoulders, keeping him close. 

“You want to go somewhere else?” He looks at Zayn's mouth when he says it, because it's easier than seeing rejection in his eyes. 

“Like where?” Zayn asks, which isn't a _no._ It's not a yes either, Harry knows, but it's not a no. 

“Like the fucking loo?” Harry laughs. “I dunno, hadn't thought it out very well.” He presses close, drags his lips over Zayn's cheekbone on the way to his ear to rumble out: “Some place I can suck you off.” 

He feels Zayn shiver again at that, feels the vibration of the noise he makes against his chest. “Fuck, Harry,” Zayn says, turning his head. “Fuck.” 

“That's the idea,” Harry mutters, and kisses him, like he's wanted to since he first saw Zayn on the tube. 

Zayn kisses back like Harry hoped he might, all intensity and intent, his fingertips a firm, sure pressure on the back of Harry's neck, keeping him grounded as his tongue traces over the line of Harry's lips. He opens up, because of course he does, tries to give as good as he gets and tries to keep himself from looking too desperate, even though all he really wants to do is rut up against Zayn right here in the middle of the dance floor. 

“Bathroom,” he says frantically, pulling away for a breath. “Bathroom, bathroom, bathroom.” 

“Yeah, alright, yeah,” Zayn answers just as frantic, stumbling through the crowd of people still dancing, his hand locked in a vice grip around Harry's. He pulls him off the floor and down the little hallway toward the loo, pushing Harry in the open door and closing it by shoving Harry up against it and kissing him again. Harry's happy to stay there for the time being and let himself enjoy getting kissed up against a dirty club bathroom door, but when he hears the click of the lock sliding into place, it's like a switch flips inside him and he breaks away, turning and pressing Zayn to the door instead. 

“Stay there,” he murmurs, kissing him hard on the mouth before sinking to his knees, smirking at the way Zayn groans out his name above him. The only thing Harry loves more than kissing the fittest bloke at a club is sucking him off, and the fact that it's _Zayn_ and he's been waiting so long to do this just makes it all the better. 

“Gonna take good care of you,” he says, fingers working on Zayn's flies, peeling down his jeans and underwear, taking the base of his cock in one hand once it's free. “Gonna make you feel so good,” he says, licks a stripe up the underside and takes the head into his mouth. 

Zayn moans above him, like he hadn't expected Harry to just dive into it or something, and that makes Harry's blood run hot, makes him suck harder and moan around Zayn's cock when he feels a hand in his hair. He pulls off for a moment to look up at Zayn-- whose eyes have gone dark and heavy-lidded, his lips a mess from kissing for so long, _fuck_ \-- and nods. 

“Please,” he says, pressing his head into Zayn's hand, “I like it.” And then swallows Zayn back down. 

Harry works his mouth over the head of Zayn's dick, tonguing at the slit, humming out a pleased noise when Zayn's hand tightens in his hair. He nods again, moaning when Zayn's hips jerk forward, pressing his cock deep into Harry's mouth. He loves being held in place and fucked, loves feeling used and filthy and he really loves Zayn's dick. He wraps his hands around the backs of Zayn's thighs and tugs until he gets the message, moaning when the hand in his hair holds him in place and Zayn starts to thrust his hips with intent. 

“Fuck, Harry,” Zayn pants out, hand tightening until Harry can feel tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. “Fuck, babe, your mouth, s'like it was made for me to fuck it--” 

Harry whimpers, his hands scrabbling for his own flies, shoving a hand in without even pulling his jeans down all the way. He works his hand over himself in time with Zayn's thrusts, groaning as his rhythm starts to falter and becomes erratic. It's only another few seconds until Zayn comes, shouting something that might be Harry's name, and the taste of Zayn on his tongue is what sends Harry over the edge, coming all over his hands and jeans so hard he curls forward with it, Zayn's softening cock slipping out of his mouth. 

He leans his head on Zayn's hip as Zayn leans heavily on the door, both of their breathing ragged and loud in the quiet bathroom. They stay like that for a moment before Harry pulls away and looks up, giving Zayn a shy smile when their gazes meet. Zayn returns it for a moment, and then it's like he remembers something or-- Harry doesn't know what. All he knows is that Zayn's expression shutters and he gently pushes Harry away, redressing himself quickly. 

“I'm--” he starts, but stops, and Harry has to frown, because this isn't usually how it goes after he gives someone a blow job like that. This isn't how he expected this to go at all. “I'm sorry, Harry, I don't know what-- I just-- Liam'll-- Fuck--” 

“Zayn,” Harry croaks out, his voice absolutely wrecked. He clears his throat and tries again. “Zayn, you're not making any sense.” 

“I'm sorry,” he repeats, running a hand through his hair. It doesn't do much except make him look even more sex-rumpled, and Harry feels his frown deepen. He reaches out, touching Zayn's hip, but he flinches away from the contact. 

Okay. It's like that, then. 

“I'm sorry,” he says, and unlocks the door and leaves, abandoning Harry on the dirty floor of a club bathroom.

Harry can't help but feel like he's missed something important.

*

“You did _what_?” 

Niall's voice is as incredulous as Zayn's ever heard it, which makes him cringe a bit, because Niall’s the chillest person he knows. 

“I had sex with Harry at the club and then left him there,” Zayn repeats, not because he thinks Niall misheard, but because saying it aloud makes him feel like complete shit and he figures he deserves that. God, he's such a prick. 

“Mate,” Niall says, and pauses, like he's trying to find something else to say. “Mate,” he tries again, “I'm fucking speechless.” 

Well. That's no good. Niall's never been speechless a day in his life. 

“Good, we can skip the lecture, then,” is what Zayn ends up saying, because he's feeling defensive. 

“No, we definitely can't,” Niall says, pointing a finger at him. “What the fuck, Zayn? Why would you-- Harry's like-- He's never been anything but amazing to you.” 

That's true. Zayn knows that's true. He still has no explanation for his actions. He shrugs. Niall's eye twitches. 

“You need to apologize to him.” 

Zayn laughs. “Oh yeah, totally. 'Hey Harry, sorry for letting you cheat on your boyfriend with me--'” 

“What?” Niall raises an eyebrow. “Harry hasn't got a boyfriend. He's fucking head over heels for you, mate.” 

“No, he's not,” Zayn says, ignoring the way his heart kicks up in his chest, and the way his brain keeps screaming _don't ignore the logic!!!_ at him. He's feeling a little hysterical at the moment. “He's dating Liam.” 

Niall's eyes go wide. He's completely silent for a full ten seconds, and then he bursts out laughing. “Oh my god! Zayn,” he laughs, his cheeks going red with how breathless he is. “Zayn, they're not dating.” 

Zayn frowns. “Then why's his phone background a picture of Liam?” 

“Because they've known each other forever?” Niall shrugs. “Because Louis put it there as a joke and Harry never changed it? I dunno. There's literally thousands of answers to that question. They're not dating.” 

“How do you know?” Zayn nearly shouts it, fed up with this whole thing. He tries his best to be a good person, really, and leaving Harry with his pants undone and stained with come in a public bathroom can't really go on his list of Good Deeds, and if what Niall is saying is true, it means his freakout was unfounded anyway and he's being a giant twat. 

“Because I asked him!” 

Well. Fuck. 

“Shit,” Zayn says, sinking down into a chair. Niall claps a hand to his shoulder, squeezing sympathetically. 

“Yeah, mate. Shit indeed.” 

*

Harry wakes the next morning with sore knees and a ruined voice. Usually, he doesn’t mind. Usually, whoever he’s sucked off has come home with him and not left him on the floor with his dick out. 

He wanders into the kitchen, getting himself a glass of water and a cup of tea to soothe his throat, leaning on the work surface while waiting for the kettle. 

“Morning,” Louis says behind him, “Make one for me, will you?” 

“Sure,” Harry croaks out, wincing when Louis lets out a cackle. 

“So you did get some action from our boy Zayn, then?” Louis asks, and Harry’s not looking at him but he can practically hear the leer in his voice. He knows Louis means no harm-- never aims to hurt when it comes to Harry-- but the thought of all of it still makes his chest tighten up and his eyes go wet. 

“Suppose,” he says, hunching over the kettle more. He feels Louis’ arms wrap around his waist from behind in the next moment, feels the press of his mouth at his shoulder. Harry chokes out a breath, leaning back into him slightly.

Louis hums against Harry’s shoulder. “I thought that was a good thing?” Louis being gentle only reminds Harry of the last time he had to act like this, when Harry had walked into Ben’s room to find Ben with someone else, and-- God. _God_. Harry was supposed to stop doing things like this. 

“He left me,” he says, choking on it. He’s so stupid. He’s so fucking _stupid._ “I mean-- At the club. We, um-- danced a bit and went to the bathroom and he left me there. After.” 

 

Louis’ arms tighten at Harry’s waist, and he puffs out a breath that sounds a bit like a growl. “I’ll fucking kill him,” he says, and Harry laughs. 

“You won’t,” he says, resting a hand over Louis’ arm and squeezing. “Thank you, but I can handle it.” 

Louis snorts at him. “Your method of dealing with it is avoiding him forever. You can’t, you know. It won’t work.” 

Harry sighs. “It’ll work for a little bit though, at least.” 

Louis only hums again, hugging Harry tighter before letting go completely. He moves to grab the mugs from the cabinet, along with the sugar. Harry must look more pathetic than he thought if Louis is willing to sacrifice the sanctity of his tea. 

“Just let me know if you want me to beat him up, or something,” Louis says, sliding the sugar toward Harry. Harry takes it, smiling at him in reply. 

*

Zayn presses his phone to his forehead and lets out a deep breath. He should call Harry, he knows, but he doesn’t know what he’d say if he had to hear Harry’s voice. He doesn’t know if he’d be able to say anything at all, actually. 

He pulls up a blank text message instead, addressing it to Harry. 

_**hey mate,**_ he writes and immediately erases. Awful, terrible. No fucking good. 

_**Harry,**_ he starts again, _**I’m really sorry. Please give me a chance to explain?**_

He presses send and decides to wait an hour. He’ll send another if Harry hasn’t responded. 

–

Zayn sends Harry forty-two text messages over the next week, which is more than he's sent anyone in the whole time he's had a phone, probably, and Harry doesn't answer a single fucking one. 

Zayn figures he deserves that, actually, but he doesn't know what to do to make it right. 

After the forty-third, Zayn finally gets a reply. 

_this is louis on harry's phone. Look zayn you're an ok bloke and maybe we could've been friends but you really fucked Harry up and he doesn't deserve that. He's my best mate and you fucked up. Fifty text messages isn't going to fix it._

He’ll just have to think of something better, then.

–

“Zayn, hang on a moment,” Julian calls for him after class, his voice echoing through the studio. They've got their critiques in a week, and while Zayn's basically done with his paintings, he still wants to make sure there's nothing he needs to fix or whatever. 

“Yeah?” 

“Hey, have you thought any more about what I asked you?” 

Zayn frowns, “The gallery stuff?” Julian nods. 

In all honesty, when Julian hadn't pressed the issue, Zayn had assumed that he hadn't really meant it, so he hadn't brought it up again either. He shrugs now, unsure of what to do. 

“I suppose I could do it. I mean, if you know someone.” 

Julian grins at him. “Don't worry about that.” 

–

_I know that text messages won't work but I just want you to know that I'm showing at a gallery thursday, next week at 7pm. I think it might interest you. Louis has details, if you want. I'm sorry._

*

From the moment he steps in the door, Harry feels ridiculously nervous. He's felt nervous all day, really, and has been waffling about whether or not he'd even show up tonight. He'd read every single one of Zayn's text messages-- all full of the same explanation and apologies-- but hadn't known how to reply. What do you say to someone who thinks you're dating your best friend and fucks you in a bathroom anyway? Harry didn't know. He still doesn't know. 

The only thing Harry knows is Zayn's art means a lot to him, and it's hard for him to share it with people, so a familiar face might help him out a bit. Even if that familiar face is a bit estranged. Christ, that makes them sound like feuding family members, which puts a gross twist on the whole thing. 

Still. Anyway. Since he'd been unable to decide for sure whether or not he was going to show up, he feels underdressed compared to most of the people here. He's got his skinnies on, of course, and his shirt's buttoned up all the way, but his hair's a bit of a mess and his boots are well-worn. 

Maybe Zayn won't care either way. God, Harry shouldn't even care whether or not Zayn will care. Zayn fucked his mouth and left him in a bathroom. Zayn's a jerk. A _jerk._ Harry's been trying to tell himself that for days and days. 

It hasn't really been working. 

He knows for sure it hasn't been working when he spots Zayn in his section, standing with his back unnaturally stiff and tense, hands clasped behind his back. He looks good, but he always does. His hair's done up again, but he's got dressier clothes on this time around. He's speaking to a group of people and smiling, but it looks sort of strained. 

If they were still friends, Harry might go save him. As it is, he turns and heads for the refreshment table. He needs a glass of champagne before he can deal with this. 

–

By the time he makes his way back over to Zayn's section he's had his glass of champagne and a little plate of fruit and seen most all the other exhibits. Harry's a fan of art, so it hasn't been boring, per say, but he has definitely felt like he's just prolonging the inevitable. 

Of course, when he finally gets the courage to go over and speak to Zayn, he's nowhere in sight. 

The gallery's mostly emptied by now, so there's no one else here to see him look at Zayn's paintings. Harry hadn't been able to see much of them earlier, but now there's nothing to stop him. Only himself, he supposes. He stands in front of them, unable to restrain a smile once he realizes they're set out a bit like panels in a comic book. Zayn's always talking about comics. It's cute. It makes sense it'd show up in his work. 

He reads the placard next to the paintings, the one that says the title and the author's name. 

_Strangers on a Train_ , it reads, and just under: _a series by Zayn Malik_. 

Harry's brow furrows as his gaze flicks to the top left, drinking in the details before moving on to the next, then the next. He stops at the large one, dumbstruck. How he hadn't noticed it before makes absolutely no sense, but he notices now. He sees it now. 

It’s him, is the thing. The lines of it all are a bit blurry, sort of muddled, like the haze of a memory, but that’s his hair and his eyes and his sky blue linen shirt he wore on the day of his interview at _GAZE_. The first day he met Zayn. It’s huge, taller than Harry himself and so clearly painted with care and admiration that it makes Harry’s eyes prick up with tears. 

Fuck, they’re both so stupid.

“Hope it's not too creepy, like,” Zayn mumbles behind him, scaring the absolute shit out of Harry, who jumps and spins, a hand clasped to his chest. 

“Fuck, Zayn,” he says, and Zayn looks so nervous that Harry has to hug him, take a step forward and wrap his arms around him. Zayn hugs him back, and everything fragile in Harry's chest, everything that felt cracked and brittle, mends itself, firming up again in Zayn's strong hold. “Fuck,” he repeats, and buries his face in Zayn's neck. 

“I'm sorry, Harry, I'm so sorry,” Zayn mutters, but Harry just shakes his head. “No, no, I am. I was awful to you. I should've just-- I should've just asked. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Can you forgive me?” 

Harry pulls back, but only enough to rest his forehead against Zayn's, his hands coming to rest on his hips. 

“Yeah,” he says, sniffling a bit. If Louis were here, he'd tease Harry endlessly about getting teary-eyed, but it's just-- it's a lot. Zayn is a lot. 

“For the record,” he says, his grip on Zayn's hips tightening. “I really like you. I'm single, and I really like you, and I'd really like to date you.” 

Zayn smiles, all teeth and crinkled eyes, and says, “For the record, me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> [come say hi!](http://jessimond.tumblr.com)


End file.
